


Where Draco is a Statue

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 06:39:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco gets turned into a statue at the very end of the war with Voldemort. Five years pass and he wakes up in a completely new world. Harry reluctantly helps him along. I wrote this almost 7 years ago there is a lot of errors i am not even rereading this business. Have fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Draco is a Statue

Directly afterward, Harry would go out for drinks and laugh in giddy relief with friends. They would slap each other on the back and say things like, "Of course," and "We knew it all along," and "We never doubted you."  
  
Later, Harry would wonder how it would've ended if he'd just done as he was told. If he'd waited for the Aurors to track down Voldemort instead of breaking off on his own. If he'd followed placidly, did only as the Order said, no questions. Then it would be just an idle, bored question, not one he seriously thought out the answer to. The good guys won because he took off on his own; it went a little bumpily, but when had anything been _simple_ for Harry Potter?  
  
Later still, he would leave the idea that Voldemort's last day could've gone any other way carefully alone. Each and every step suddenly became so fragile and carefully plotted out. Every one of his moves were suddenly so half-chance in his memory. It's only then he'll realize what a wonder it was that it ended the way it did; perfect.  
  
At the time, though, Harry didn't think anything about it.  
  
It was just Draco Malfoy being an annoying twat, standing in the room Voldemort was _supposed_ to be, smirking like he belonged in this war, like _he_ was the archrival Harry was supposed to vanquish. Like he hadn't been weeping in the loo when it all started.  
  
"Where's Voldemort?" Harry had demanded, hoping the distraction wouldn't last long. He wasn't keen on wasting energy on minions.  
  
Malfoy flinched at the name but said smoothly, "You're here to kill him, I suppose?" His own wand arm stayed annoyingly limp at his side.  
  
"That's the plan," Harry said, just a touch irritated. What, did he just want to chat?  
  
"Best of luck," Malfoy said with a shrug, now twirling his wand between skinny, pale fingers. "I haven't seen him since your little attack began."  
  
"After you ran off like a coward?" Harry bit out.  
  
"Awfully high and mighty for someone 'searching' for the Dark Lord in House Elf quarters," he smirked, oddly knowing. "Just what was your grand scheme to find him? Open random doors and hope? Or is the great Harry Potter looking for a bed to hide under?"  
  
"I know exactly what I'm doing, and I'm not afraid to do it," Harry said. Which had been true, until he'd opened the door and found Malfoy. Snape's report had said the last door in the west corridor; he was usually so accurate. Harry tried to ignore the scattered belongings of random House Elves as he continued. "Which is more than I can say about you."  
  
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Look, Potter, we don't have much time before --"  
  
His voice broke off oddly, mouth froze half open, his pointed face suddenly cold, stone gray. The color traveled down his neck, then from the bits of wrists that Harry could see to the tips of Malfoy's fingers. Stone.  
  
He wasn't focused on at Harry anymore, wasn't focused on anyone, really, unless his brain was still functioning beneath all those layers of stone. It looked somewhat ridiculous, a Malfoy-statue someone had decided to drape Death Eater robes over.  
  
"Potter," Harry whirled around only to find Voldemort's wand trained neatly on his forehead. "I see you've managed to sway young Mr. Malfoy. No matter," Voldemort's lips curled upward to display two rows of pointy, distinctly inhuman teeth, but no one could call that a smile. "It ends here."  
  
Harry kept his mouth shut in a grimace, instead gripping his wand tighter, leveling it with Voldemort's chest.  
  
  
*END! Hahahaaaa. No no, I'm just playing.*  
  
  
  
Harry wasn't sure what did it.   
  
Maybe Mars and Pluto had aligned the night before, or Neville Longbottom crossed his eyes three times in one day.   
  
Whatever it was, one morning Harry woke up, walked past the front door on his way to the kitchen and saw what he'd been using as a coat rack had failed at the one useful thing it'd probably done in its entire life, leaving three of his best coats and Moody's old bowler hat in a wrinkled heap on the floor.  
  
He found Draco Malfoy in his kitchen reading his issue _The Daily Prophet_ , eating his last apple and three slices of sandwich bread.   
  
He was still dressed in Hermione's awful green sundress, with a pair of Colin Creevey's tan trousers, thanks to one too many drunken get-togethers in Harry's sitting room. They were both ridiculously oversized and threatened to slide off his now smooth flesh, where before the snags that inherently dotted all over stone held them firmly in place. There were even a few tears in Hermione's dress from forcing the thin fabric over particularly sharp bumps.  
  
It felt wrong to see Malfoy breathing. This was a part of Harry's life that he'd managed to tuck away and only think about when necessary. _This_ Malfoy didn't belong in _this_ kitchen eating _that_ food.   
  
Harry found it ludicrously annoying to see the face that had been so still, bumpy and solidly gray now covered in smooth, flushed skin. His nose twitched occasionally as he read. Every inch of Malfoy screamed that he was alive and Harry didn't know what to do with his irritation of it.  
  
He'd taken to covering Malfoy's face with the bowler hat when having a reminder of the war had become too much While the urge was stronger than ever to cover Malfoy's face now, Harry doubted he'd cooperate.  
  
Ten little digits flexed all at once, ten digits that he'd grown accustom seeing in two solid blocks with little lines for fingers. It suddenly struck Harry how ridiculously complicated people were; so many tiny, fragile pieces.   
  
"Five years." Malfoy scowled, lowering the paper to glare at Harry properly. " _Five years_ , Potter. Can I assume that I was dressed like this all that time?"  
  
Harry stared for a moment, then shrugged and poured himself a cup of milk.  
  
"I suppose you want to know what happened with Voldemort?" he asked, immensely pleased with Malfoy's wince at a name that even the Weasleys had gotten used to hearing.  
  
"You're comfortably alive, that tells me all I need to know," Malfoy muttered around a mouthful of apple, and lifted the paper back over his face. His body went unnaturally stiff, though, and Harry was sure the paper was more of a shield than reading material. "And his followers?"  
  
"Well, I didn't follow all their cases. I know your parents are dead, though," he said, watching the fingers tense. "It turned out your mother was killed in that raid she disappeared in, and Lucius got the kiss."  
  
When Harry thought back on the incident later, he really had to wonder what sort of reaction he'd been _expecting_ , telling a boy who probably lived most of his life as if pain was an abstract concept that he was suddenly parentless.   
  
But Harry's own life had become rather muted in emotion, mellow and lived without much effort. Everything that happened felt plotted out and he was rarely taken off guard by anything, or cared enough about the unexpected to feel anything because of it.   
  
He must've assumed that Malfoy had somehow matured in the same way, and wasn't it obvious that two people so enriched in Voldemort's failed scheme would've met their sticky end?  
  
Malfoy didn't seem to think so because he slammed the paper down and called Harry a liar, and he said it in a tone that was usually reserved for other four lettered words.  
  
Harry cracked a smile because it'd been so long since _anyone_ had even hinted that he was less than perfect.   
  
And then Malfoy's jaw dropped and he screeched something that sounded like, _"You think that's funny?!"_ But it was high-pitched and practically girlish and he knew it was wrong, but Harry couldn't help but let out a surprised bark of laughter.  
  
When Malfoy stood Colin's trousers finally did fall to his ankles, but he kicked them away with a snarl of irritation, his wand, which had been tucked into Colin's trousers, aimed at Harry's chest. " _Impedimenta!_ "   
  
Nothing.  
  
Malfoy shook his wand angrily, like it was a quill out of ink, and cried the spell again. When that didn't work, he let out a howl of frustration that only amused Harry more.  
  
Malfoy hadn't been very intimidating back in school even with Crabbe and Goyle, and now that Harry had a few more pounds and inches on him, he couldn't find Malfoy's scowl and clenched fists anything but endearing, especially when the dress he wore was obviously meant to reach knees and went midway down his calf.  
  
But he could still punch and got a few good shots in before Harry managed to pin the squirming, hysterical boy to cold, tiled floor of the kitchen.   
  
Later, while Harry had patiently patched up both their wounds, Malfoy sat on the kitchen table, his legs swinging miserably as he mumbled names of Death Eaters and friends and Harry told their fates.  
  
And when he asked, "Professor Snape?" in a particularly composed voice Harry couldn't help but be amazed at how much time had actually passed. He admitted that there was a period, when he'd first placed the Malfoy-coat rack at the door, that he still thought of the man as ‘Professor,' too. It seemed like ages ago, though. Not from another lifetime but certainly not anything he associated with himself.  
  
"Alive. McGonagall let him have a go at torturing students again three years ago."   
  
"And . . . any word on Parkinson?" Malfoy said in an odd, drawling tone and once Harry realized it was his attempt at being subtle and casual, he had to physically restrain himself from laughing.  
  
"Er, she wasn't held for any Death Eater activities that I can remember." Harry said, in a perfectly neutral tone. "Why?"  
  
His ears turned a delicate shade of pink. "Not any of your business, really, Potter."  
  
"Weren't you two seeing each other back in school?" He asked, brushing his wand against a bruise that was beginning to swell on the apple of Malfoy's cheek.  
  
The pink spilled over to his face, "It's none of your business, Potter!"   
  
"Are-are you actually embarrassed? Because of a crush?" It was like poking a cat.  
  
" _Shut up!_ " He cried, face red in honest frustration and near humiliation. Harry had to wonder if this was how Snape had felt when he stumbled across Harry's indignation over his feelings for Cho. No, surely Snape couldn't've felt this tug of affection at a mole hill that'd been made into a mountain.  
  
"Sorry, sorry." Harry tried to make his voice as soothing as possible. "No, I think I remember hearing something about Parkinson marrying Flint?"  
  
"Oh," he said quietly, looking down into open palms.  
  
"Actually," Harry said into the awkward silence, "there's something I've wanted to ask you."  
  
"What?" Malfoy asked sourly.  
  
"That final battle," Harry started slowly, "we were sent to the wrong room. Now, I asked Snape how he could've made such an error, and he told me the strangest thing. You know what that was?" Malfoy's stiffening shoulders was enough of a response. "That's right, he said that _you_ were working for the Order as well, and that _you_ had sent me to the wrong room."  
  
"I can't--couldn't predict his every move, Potter." He mumbled.  
  
"True, and I might just believe that, but then you were waiting in that room, a room that Voldemort would never, ever go into. And that doesn't sound like a mistake to me," Harry said, leaning against the table while Malfoy jumped off it. "Seems to me like you were deliberately putting me somewhere you were sure Voldemort would never go."  
  
"You don't know what you're talking about."   
  
"But what I can't figure out is _why_ ," Harry continued, watching the affect the words were having on Malfoy with amusement. "Were you trying to keep the war from ending? You had to've known it'd only be a matter of time before we confronted each other--"  
  
Malfoy looked one more word away from surging forward and gnawing his way through Harry's throat. With a snarl he turned on his heel and stormed up Harry's stairs, the skirts of the dress twirling dramatically.  
  
A second later, a door slammed shut.  
  
Harry briefly wondered which room Malfoy had pilfered before shrugging and placing two new slices of bread into the toaster and continuing his morning routine.  
  
*  
  
Malfoy, using whatever innate gift he possessed to find the most annoying possible course of action and do ten times worse, had locked himself in the master bedroom.   
  
Which, if the fact that it contained clues to the entirety of his personal life over the past four years, was the inconvenience. But Harry was still in his pajamas and wanted to leave his home at some point during the day.  
  
Silently cursing the wards that prevented Apparating on his property, he knocked rather politely on the door. "Malfoy?"  
  
"Crawl into a corner and die!"  
  
Well then.   
  
"Get out of my house!"  
  
"What?! You used me for five years--"  
  
"I didn't _use_ you!"  
  
"--I think I've earned the right to sit in your room for ten minutes!"  
  
"It's been more than ten minutes!" Harry scowled at the door.   
  
Silence.  
  
"I need my pants!"  
  
He thought he might've heard Malfoy shift.  
  
"Isn't there anyone you want to see? To let them know that you're back to --" normal didn't really fit, did it? "-- you?"  
  
There was a loud THUD -- Harry guessed from him jumping off the bed -- and stomping to the door, which was flung open to reveal and angry, pointed face.  
  
"Potter, anyone who's ever cared a speck about me is _dead_ or in Azkaban! The ones still alive and not jailed all know by now that I betrayed them! My parents are _dead_! I've spent five years in your parlor as a coat rack and _no one_ seemed too keen on fixing me! Tell me, _who_ am I going to want to go _see_?"  
  
Harry's mouth worked for a second before he gave the weak suggestion, "I was thinking Snape?"  
  
Malfoy blinked, his chest's violent heaving ceasing at once. "Oh. That sounds nice, actually. I'll be out in a minute."  
  
The door closed in Harry's face.  
  
*  
  
"They took it," Malfoy was quivering with rage, stomping the soot from his feet onto Harry's welcome mat, hands in tight fists. "They took _everything_. It's all gone into donations, rewards, bonuses. It's all gone, all in the pockets of other Ministry officials, probably already spent."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Harry asked, turning away from the telly to watch the thin boy fume.   
  
Honestly, Harry was amazed to see Malfoy tumble out of his fireplace. He had been sure the last thing he was ever going to hear out of Malfoy's mouth was, "Three Broomsticks!" over the roar of the Floo. The last thing he was going to see of the boy was him donned in one of Harry's older, frayed robes, mouth in a tight grimace in preparation for the bumpy ride.  
  
"They. Took. It. The Ministry. I went -- Actually, first, I tried to go to the Manor, but they _blocked_ it from the Floo. I bounced out into some museum in the States where people stared and tried to ask me _questions_. _Then_ I went to the ministry. And they said that I'd been declared legally _gone_ and they _took everything!_ "  
  
It had been Ron's idea, originally, but Harry had been in full support of it. There were people in need and the Malfoys' money was just _sitting_ there. It hadn't taken much convincing for the Minister to agree, and Bill had happily completed the momentous task of purifying centuries of curses from mountains of galleons and antiques.  
  
Harry had pretty much forgotten about it, and while he couldn't say he felt guilty as the money had been put to good use-- bringing stranded families back together and rebuilding homes --he doubted the irate boy would feel the same.  
  
"Well . . . take it back," Harry said weakly.   
  
"Oh yes Potter, _there's_ an idea!" Malfoy's voice was growing sharper and more frantic with each word, "I'll just walk into St. Mungo's and demand a quarter of their revenue! I'll go to the Ministry and insist they give me a list of every Auror that was given a holiday bonus over the past five years and force them to give it all back--"  
  
"Malfoy,"  
  
"--If they'd left the Manor alone, at least, I'd have some power to do _something_ , but now? What am I supposed to do _now_?! I don't even have a license to Apparate! I can't even do magic!"  
  
" _Malfoy_!"  
  
Malfoy's head whirled around, staring at Harry like he'd just noticed his presence in the room. "I wanted to see Father. Or-or, what was left of him." His voice was just as frantic, but now it was in a quieter, low tone.  
  
"They wouldn't let you?"   
  
"I couldn't pay the fee for the ride to Azkaban." He said, then let out a harsh bark of what Harry was guessed was supposed to be laughter.   
  
"Ouch," Harry winced.  
  
"Oh, please. Go ahead, Potter, laugh. This is what you wanted, isn't it? I was so mean to you and your friends, I'll bet you think I _deserve_ what happened to my family, to be _squibby_."   
  
Harry was suddenly strongly reminded of Moaning Myrtle, but he abandoned that train of thought quickly. Kneeling in Malfoy's blood wasn't what he wanted to think about at the moment, or ever, really.  
  
"Whether or not you _deserve_ what happened doesn't matter -- wait. Squibby?"  
  
"Being a statue apparently causes magic fatigue. It'll be months before I can do anything properly." Malfoy dropped down onto the settee, and Harry remembered Malfoy's failed attack in the kitchen. "I never graduated. I--I joked with Snape before I left, I said I'd live the rest of my days in the Manor, spoiling myself and growing round. I didn't really mean it, but I didn't think--"  
  
Was he going to cry? Harry hoped not, but he really couldn't blame him if he did. "You'll stay here until this gets settled, and tomorrow," he said slowly, knowing he was going to regret each word in a matter of days, "I'll take you to see your father."  
  
"Potter . . ."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"That is the most active portrait I've ever seen," he was eyeing the television with suspicious interest.   
  
Harry directed his attention back to the Catherine Tate Show. "No, that's -- they're actually doing that right now, it's not a painting."  
  
"So those tiny people are here right now?" He cocked his head to the side, peering closer at school girl demanding to know if her friend was disrespecting her or her family.  
  
"It's a television. Muggles use it for entertainment, kind of like a play,"  
  
"Oh," Malfoy sneered at the mention of Muggles, dropping whatever interest he'd had flat on the floor, standing as abruptly as he sat. "I'm going to bed."  
  
*  
  
Malfoy was standing in the doorway with a large sword rooted in his stomach.  
  
He watched in mild curiosity as Harry grabbed the hilt and tried to pull it out, but his hands wouldn't cooperate. In one brutal shove, Malfoy was impaled, the blood stained tip stuck out his back. Only when Malfoy's pure blood coated his hands did he recognize the jewels that glittered all over the now slick handle.  
  
"This is Godric's sword," he informed Malfoy pointlessly, his voice sounding odd and drugged.  
  
"Of course it is, only a true Gryffindor could've pulled that out of a hat, Harry," Malfoy's mouth was moving but his eyes were blank and his face was slack. Cold, stone fingers wrapped around Harry's hands, as if trying to steady his hold on the dripping hilt. "Go ahead. Finish it,"  
  
Harry forced himself awake before he could find out exactly what finishing it would entail.  
  
He walked from the guestroom to the master bedroom and watched Malfoy curled around his pillow, wrapped in his blankets, trying to resist the urge to wash his hands clean of imagined blood.  
  
*  
  
Harry had never seen a broken man until he and Malfoy made their way back from Azkaban.   
  
Because the men in Azkaban weren't broken, they weren't pathetic; they simply _weren't_. They were nothings, slumped in the corner or staring out the window blankly; eyes unfocused, as seeing and attentive as marbles. A body that had forgotten to die.  
  
Draco Malfoy's face had been just as blank, but it was a frenzied sort of blankness, a careful schooling of his features kept them still and empty as he stared through the bars of Lucius's cage. As if an empty shell needed to be contained. Malfoy's fingers curled around the thick, rusted metal rods and Harry had wonder why they even bothered, even if they felt the need to encage them, surely there was a magical way to trap someone that didn't rust?  
  
No one spoke, they barely even breathed. The silence wouldn't have been so obvious and deafening if Harry didn't know for each set of bars there was a body of a witch or wizard sitting dumbly behind them, like toys placed in their proper drawer.  
  
Thankfully, Harry didn't have enough time to feel too awkward. When he glanced back toward Malfoy, because no one could stare at that shell of a man for very long, the boy was already halfway down the hall. Lucius's body continued to resting limply against the cot, unable to recognize his son's plight, not even twitching when the absurdly bulky metal door thundered shut behind him and even Harry had to jump.  
  
Unfortunately the ride back to mainland was more than long enough to become awkward. It was a unreasonably sunny day and the seas were calm, smooth and looked carved of light blue marble.  
  
Malfoy didn't seem to notice, curled in on himself on the other side of the boat and Harry wouldn't have been surprised if he keeled over the edge from misery any second.  
  
"Malfoy--"  
  
"Shut up Potter," Malfoy snapped, his voice nasally and dangerous and tight, glaring down at his knees. "Just shut up."  
  
"I just wanted--"  
  
"I said _shut up_!" Malfoy demanded frantically, sounding almost confused that Harry hadn't listened to him the first time, "What do you want? To talk about feelings? To act like we're friends? I just saw my own -- my _dad_ \--and he was like _that_ ," he had to stop, take in a shaky gasp of air and Harry swore he could see the cracks running up his body, like ice finally giving under too much weight, "so I don't want to kiss and make up just yet, and will you just keep your bloody mouth shut!"  
  
And just like that, he snapped. Broke. There were no tears, but in their place was something much worse, a look of indescribable pain and Harry wasn't sure what to do, if he should do anything at all.   
  
The boat was small enough that if Malfoy had been sitting properly they would've been brushing knees, which only emphasized the fact that they were refusing to touch. Was he supposed to reach forward, would Malfoy even appreciate it?  
  
He was just sitting there, all in pieces and all Harry could do was think about how very callously he'd told him his parent's fate.   
  
He was suddenly reminded of Ron, how he'd been at Arthur's funeral, and how Harry hadn't had any problem offering his shoulder.   
  
It was surprisingly easy to do the same for Malfoy, to push forward and rest a hand on his narrow back. Coaxing him into a very awkward hug met surprisingly little resistance. Malfoy was all points and angles, but if he rested his forehead on Harry's shoulder just so and kept his own shoulder tucked in a bit, it worked.   
  
By the time they got back to shore Malfoy was somehow put together again and apparently more than fine with acting as though the incident had never happened.  
  
*  
  
Harry hadn't seen Snape in years.  
  
They parted on semi-amicable terms, Harry promising to make sure Malfoy would be kept in one piece, Snape sneering badly veiled insults toward the pureblooded half of his parentage.  
  
So obviously, it was a bit of a surprise when Harry walked into the drawing room three days later and found the surly man awkwardly hunched on the very edge of his settee, looking entirely out of place in the Muggle-esque room. Harry thought it was probably because the pale man wasn't used to sitting in direct sunlight.  
  
"My apologies," Malfoy was brushing past Harry with two cups of tea before he could ask what was going on. "Potter doesn't seem able to grasp the concept of house elves."  
  
"I understand the concept just fine. Better than you seem to understand the concept of this being _my_ house."  
  
"You want to discuss manners, Potter?" Malfoy whirled on him and it was quite disconcerting how intimidating a scrawny teen who just managed to reach his nose could be. "Because I find draping coats over unaware houseguests that you've cross-dressed a bit ruder than inviting over guests without asking."  
  
"You--"  
  
"I'm not even the mood to watch you make a fool of yourself while you try to come up with some stupid excuse," he said coldly. "Just don't assume that you have anything to teach me about _manners_."  
  
He avoided looking at Snape, who was no doubt quite pleased at this telling off. Leaning forward and speaking in a low, dangerous voice that Malfoy had to strain to hear, "What I did was tamer than anything you would've if our positions had been reversed, so you'll have to try a lot harder than that to send me on any guilt trip."  
  
"You brought up guilt, Potter, not me," Malfoy muttered, but it was easy for Harry to pretended he didn't hear it as he turned and left the room.   
  
*  
  
To walk into the kitchen, it would've been reasonable to guess that Malfoy had made a full, three course meal in a rush, rather than a simple pot of tea. Foods not even associated with liquids-- let alone tea --were spread all over the countertop; oranges, bread, almonds, bacon, flour, syrup, three open bags of crisps, along with five or six dirtied pots and pans.  
  
It looked like he'd ended up throwing it all into a tin cooking pot if the questionable brown liquid swishing around at the bottom was anything to go by.  
  
Only a cook with the arrogance of a Slytherin could've drank that concoction, instead of pouring it down the drain like a sane person and starting over, and only a person with the curiosity of a Ravenclaw and the bravery of a Gryffindor could've tasted it after seeing what went in it.  
  
Harry had both and decided to save enough for a sip after getting rid of the rest of it. It was minty and curiously sweet, and a very tiny part of Harry privately regretted not saving enough for a full cup.  
  
He hadn't walked back toward the drawing room with the intent of eavesdropping, habit led him there more than anything else, but the voices drifting out the open archway certainly didn't deter him.  
  
"--staying here?" That was Snape's voice, but the only reason Harry knew it was because it was too deep to be Malfoy's and he hadn't seen anyone else in the room. He'd never heard the man sound so . . . non-sneering before.  
  
"No, thank you professor. Spinner's End is maddening without company and Potter offered. At least until NEWTs roll around and I can get it properly on paper that I'm brilliant. It won't be a problem, will it? Most of our year skipped seventh year completely, they didn't have to retake the year, did they?"  
  
"I shouldn't think so, only a handful of students preformed poorly enough to stay an extra year," Harry leaned against the wall, remembering how Ron had done _just_ poorly enough to require the year (and of course this was entirely due to Snape's unfairness, obviously _completely_ unrelated to the nonstop partying he'd engaged in since the end of the war). A blessing in disguise, his Quidditch skills had been so impressive that eighth year, without anyone there at the school he'd been worried about impressing, he'd been snatched up immediately by the Chudley Cannons. He spent two years as a reserve Keeper and was now arguably the only thing keeping the Cannon's head above water.  
  
"In any case, you said you'd tell me everything later. It's later, so tell me." Malfoy was saying.  
  
"I have no information that you can't figure out on your own--"  
  
"Why couldn't you have kept me? Why did you send me to _Potter_?" Malfoy sounded eager, even through his dislike. Like Snape was about to reveal the answer to a riddle he'd been having a time with, Harry was just a little stitch in it.  
  
"Would you leave something of such value in Spinner's End?"  
  
"I was referring to Hogwarts," he said petulantly, obviously having just thought of it.  
  
"I'd sooner have left you in Hagrid's hut," Snape said, lip undoubtedly curling. "You know as well as I do destruction rate of objects held of any value by Slytherins,"  
  
"You could've used protective spells! A stabling charm!"  
  
"If I had died any precautions I took would've -- do you want to say something?"  
  
"You _honestly_ can't've been planning your life as if you're not going to live past the year . . . Severus, that's just pathetic."  
  
"When I want the opinion of an idiotic, spoiled child, I'll ask for it."  
  
"Oh stop, you'll make me blush," Malfoy said, sounding amusingly sincere. "Anyway, why Potter? Why not Pansy or Zabini? Or even McGonagall, really,"  
  
"The thing I've learned about the Potters is they're rather easy to direct." Harry's jaw dropped. "If you give them a simple enough task they'll stay mindlessly devoted to it. I just had to guilt the boy a bit about not bothering to protect a spy who had risked his life for the Order and he all but insisted on it. I assumed five years wouldn't be long enough for him to grow bored with it,"  
  
There was silence for a moment and then, "What _did_ Potter do to get you to trust him so?"  
  
" . . . Pardon?"  
  
"Calling Potter names still doesn't change the fact that you trusted him more than yourself--"  
  
"I've been manipulating you to my ends since you were old enough to talk, don't be fool enough to think you know me."   
  
"Yes, yes you are very wicked. But if it hadn't worn off after a certain amount of time, you would've tried something to fix me, right?"  
  
"Just how long do you bother to remember information before it leaks out again?"  
  
"In and out, I'm afraid."  
  
"When you asked about your magic fatigue before," it was so hard to read Snape's voice, but Harry could've sworn he was amused, even as the words were practically ground out of his teeth, "I told you it was because the curse had been using your own magic, rather than Voldemort's, which is why it didn't fade when he was killed. How much magic to you think a common wizard has in him at any given moment? It was bound to wear off after a few years, six at most--"  
  
"Why didn't you say something?!" Harry demanded, finally stepping into the room.  
  
"What, were you just standing outside the doorway the entire time?" Malfoy asked, looking disgusted.  
  
Harry ignored him. "You could've _told_ me the curse was temporary!"   
  
"I sent more than one owl on the subject, if I'd any idea you were refusing contact with the outside world, I would've made it a point to make a house call," Snape said, eyebrow quirking upward and quite pointedly not glancing at the owls that were suddenly quite conspicuous, unopened and spread across his coffee table sloppily. Malfoy had pushed entire stacks carelessly to the ground to make room for the tea and biscuits.   
  
Harry kept them for about a month before throwing them out, unopened. It felt rude to skip the step of holding them for a while before tossing them, but he certainly couldn't spend each day reading through letters of mindless praise and gratitude.  
  
"I assumed if it was that important, you would've told me to my face!"  
  
"I don't see what the big deal is, it's not like you made any life changing plans around me being stone, is it?" Malfoy said, idly poking at the few owls that were stacked sloppily.  
  
"Well, If I'd known it would only be five years, you'd still have your money and manor!"   
  
Oh damn.   
  
Malfoy stood, " _You're_ the 'charming young man' with the oh-so- _brilliant_ plan to donate our money to the Ministry?"  
  
"Well, not-- kind of. I helped."  
  
"I think I'll take you up on your offer after all, professor," Malfoy said, his eyes staying trained on Harry in narrowed, dark slits. The very faint scar traveling from Malfoy's forehead to his chin, a neat line distorted by a scowl, was all Harry could see for a moment. "I'm suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of Muggle and _dog_."  
  
"Don't even try it, Potter," Snape was standing with his wand aimed at Harry's chest, and it was only then Harry realized he'd been taking a step toward Malfoy, more than willing to shut him up.  
  
"But then again, cousin Sirius didn't live long enough to visit your filthy home, did he, so maybe he just managed to rub the smell off on _you_."  
  
Harry had never been so violently blindsided by anger, and if he had to look at that pale, screwed up face for a second longer, he was going to kill him. "Get out, both of you get out."  
  
Snape had Malfoy by the back of the collar as they went toward the Floo, but the brat was still spewing his garbage after him, "Or maybe it's from the Weasleys, they probably have a time sorting out the animals from their grubby children--"  
  
Snape gave Malfoy a harsh jerk, hissing something in his ear that finally shut the boy up and Harry was sure this was the last time he'd ever have to hear Draco bloody Malfoy's voice ever again.  
  
*  
  
"Your Floo is blocked."  
  
Harry spared a glance to the Malfoy face floating in his fireplace, then turned back to the novel he'd been two more Muggle inaccuracies away from tossing. Really, wizard authors shouldn't be allowed to write Muggle novels unless they'd at least figured out how a light switch worked.  
  
"Yeah, I tend to block it when I don't want to be visited by irritating ferrets," Harry said shortly, determined to continue reading.  
  
 _Garth dashed to the tellyphone, typing in_ Richard _hastily. There had to be time. Damn it, there had to be time!_   
  
"Witty Potter, really," Malfoy sneered, then turned serious, "We need to talk."  
  
"Really? Because I think we set everything straight the last time we met," he said.  
  
 _"Garth, what is it?" Richard asked once their tellyphones had connected, concern making his already worn face wrinkle unattractively. Time had not been kind to the Emperor of the Police Men.  
  
"It's Jane. She's . . . she's been gunned,"_  
  
"Are you still on about that?" Malfoy was asking lightly, "It was so long ago, I barely remember what we fought about."   
  
"It's been two weeks," Harry said flatly, closing the book to look Malfoy in the face, "You said my house stank like--"  
  
"Look," Malfoy interrupted in a drawling, knowledgeable tone that was unlike anything Harry had ever heard from the boy; at least, directed at him. He almost always used to speak like that when talking to Snape in front of the rest of the school, "I seem to remember saying some things that might've been a mistake on my part. And while I vividly remember you selling off every single one of my family's heirlooms and centuries of our history, I think we can put all that behind us and call it even. After you fund a new wardrobe for me."  
  
"Excuse me?" asked Harry.   
  
He rushed on, completely abandoning the aristocratic tone, "Snape's house is so empty, and yesterday when I went outside a Muggle man _touched_ me! And I can only transfigure Snape's robes so much, and they're this awful _blended_ fabric, and they make me look lumpy," he looked appropriately miserable, although Harry had a hard time imagining anything making Malfoy look _lumpy_ , the boy was little better than a stick.  
  
"That's very sad," Harry said.  
  
 _"Gunned?" rumbled Richard in his deep baritone, "How hard?"  
  
"_Hard _. Hard enough . . . to_ kill _," Garth reported gravely._  
  
"Even your robes were better than this!" Malfoy said pathetically, loudly, as if could see what god awful piece of literature was getting precedence over him.  
  
"I thought they stank like a dog," Harry sneered.  
  
The lips made of fire curled into a miserable pout, "I must've been mistaken."  
  
"You were."  
  
 _"I'd best get over there," Richard said grimly. "I'm still in the states in a business meeting about making microchips, so I'll need to take an aeroplaine, or a boat. But an aeroplaine will be much faster."  
  
"I see," Garth nodded. "How long will it take you?"  
  
"Maybe an hour. I'll meet you at Jane's old flat,"_  
  
"What do you want from me, Potter? I've said I was wrong!" This was, apparently, a very big deal. Probably a first for a Malfoy.   
  
"I don't want _anything_ from you. I want to live a life where I can read without getting yelled at from my fireplace!"  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry Potter! I imagine it's stressful for you there, with your piles of Galleons and your comfortable home. I should know, I'm living in the same situation. Oh wait, I _used_ to, not anymore, thanks to _you_ , and your Gryffindory, meddlesome, self righteous -- Potter, where do you think you're going?! Get back here, I'm not finished!"  
  
"Oh, don't stop on my account, you're welcome to continue," Harry called back on his way to his newly reacquired bedroom.  
  
*  
  
It'd been the line, _Garth's mother had died an early death of the rabies, despite all the surgeries and operations, nothing had worked. It'd been a closed casket funeral._ that had finally gotten Harry to give up on the book and head down for dinner.  
  
He was on the stairwell when he heard a faint hum of someone talking at a distance. It was coming from somewhere near the living room, and it was second nature to draw a wand out of his back pocket.  
  
He descended the stairs silently, hoping for Ron, or even Mrs. Kerkoff from next door, she sometimes wandered in if no one answered the door and she was sure he was home. A normal person might've found this annoying; Harry found the idea of a neighbor feeling safe enough to wander into his home somewhat comforting.   
  
The thought gave him a bit of a smile, until he got closer and the faint buzz morphed quite abruptly to Draco Malfoy's voice, still going at a remarkable pace.  
  
" . . . and it's not as though you have a lack of space and money, you know, and if anyone owes anyone else anything, _you_ owe _me_ at least a decent set of robes. And I didn't see our arrangement before as _so_ terrible, certainly not smelly and --"  
  
"You haven't been talking this entire time?" Harry asked, staring down at the face in disbelief.  
  
Malfoy pouted again, "It's not like I've anything else to do. There's no one _here_ and Snape took all the interesting books with him--"  
  
"My god, you're not human. You _can't be_ human, you're still talking. Did you even take a break? How can you still have your voice?"  
  
"Well every time I started to stop, I was rudely reminded of what I'm missing. Namely, decent robes and a place to sleep," Malfoy said sourly. "Courtesy of our resident sanctimonious, pompous--"  
  
"Yes, I know. Jesus Malfoy, I've been upstairs for at least four hours!"  
  
"I know," he said tightly.  
  
Harry shook his head, "Why aren't you bothering someone else -- anyone else! Your old friends were rich, weren't they?"  
  
"Old being the operative word, Potter. They didn't take too kindly to me _risking my neck_ for you and the Order," Malfoy said, each word tightly clipped. "That is, the ones that aren't dead. Maybe you'd like a list of names to give the Ministry, so you can pilfer their families' histories too?"   
  
"I didn't pilfer anything! And you might as well stop trying to guilt me with that; the only 'heirlooms' you miss are small, round and gold."   
  
Malfoy might've flushed, but he definitely reared back in anger, sitting on his haunches, "How dare you? You know nothing about -- just because that's all _you_ can remember from your parents' vault doesn't mean everyone is as shallow."  
  
Malfoy was a bastard. And right. Which only made him more of a bastard. "As if you can name me one thing that wasn't a form of currency or Dark Arts--"  
  
"Fuck off." Malfoy's face vanished abruptly.   
  
Harry's hands clenched with anger for a moment, but found comfort in the thought that he'd beaten Malfoy once again at his own game.

 

 

~~~

 

 

"Name?"  
  
Harry sighed, bracing himself for the inevitable. "Harry Potter."  
  
The burly man at the door didn't seem fazed, flipping through the list casually. "Sorry. No Harry Trotters."  
  
Harry blinked. "No -- _P_ , is in . . . _P_ otter."  
  
The man nodded briefly, and skimmed the list again. "Yeah, there you are." The blocking spell with lifted with a quick flick of his wrist.  
  
"Other wizards are waiting to get into the party, Mr. Trotter," said the bouncer after a moment, growing irritated by Harry's stare.   
  
There was a murmur of irritated agreement from the line behind him. "Right, sorry," he said, stepping forward into a mess of lights, smoke and noise. If Harry hadn't witnessed the transformation before, he would've never believed this room was a Ministry office.  
  
It started out small; Oliver Wood had decided that the defeat of Voldemort had earned an end of the year celebration. Originally, he'd quietly cleared it out the sports level of the ministry for a night, and invites went from mouth to mouth and whoever showed up stayed for as long as they pleased. Inevitably, however, one mouth told a mouth with a pen and the next day it was all over the papers: hot orgy of Harry Potter, Quidditch players and booze.  
  
The next year witches and wizards who didn't even speak English were trying to get in and a bouncer was hired.  
  
What had started as a small gaggle of friends, survivors of a war, letting loose, turned into a collective mass of drunken swaying and sex. Harry had enjoyed it at first, but then again, he would've been hard pressed to find anything he didn't enjoy two years after killing Voldemort. It got a bit tedious, though, and it was thankfully easy to spot Ron's bright red head sticking out over the top of a booth. The years hadn't changed his best mate much, he was impossibly tall and a had filled out a bit, courtesy of long hours devoted to the Quidditch pitch, but was very much the same boy Harry had been best man to four years earlier.  
  
Lavender Brown was standing next the booth that Ron was seated in, along with Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnegan, Neville Longbottom and Ernie Macmillan. She was thrusting forward into the silencing spell, and giving each of them an eye full of what her no doubt fashionable dress was giving a feeble attempt at covering.   
  
By how very enraptured they seemed to be by her every word, she was either talking about Quidditch or they were just trying to get her to stay and lean over a bit more.  
  
Harry made a beeline for the group, but they were too enthralled with whatever Lavender was saying to notice his approach.   
  
"Oliver's going to do it, I could tell the moment they walked in." He heard Lavender say once he punctured the silencing spell, "Percy was being a real snob, asked how long he was going to have to put up with the 'drunken foolishness' this time."  
  
"He knows this is the bloody event of the year," Ron said sounded frustrated that he shared the same last name, but it was a huge improvement over mortified. "Should be thankful he got in the door."  
  
"What's Oliver going to do?" Harry asked, and got several startled greetings in response, Lavender not allowing him to sit until she gave him a light kiss on the cheek. Harry sighed and allowed it, she did this at every opportunity, ever since Ginny had gotten her face in the Daily Prophet and an entire exposé written on her after a chance reporter had snatched a picture of them kissing at Oliver's party two years earlier.  
  
"Every single year," she said once Harry sat down, obviously relishing each word, "Oliver has one of these parties, he comes in with Percy but nearly _leaves_ with some fan. It's because he gets irritated Percy is completely ignoring him. Oliver just grabs some young fan and spends the entire night on the dance floor molesting him. He's trying to make Percy jealous, I swear, it's the whole point of these things," Lavender's smile spoke of things that would make any mother's hair curl. "Not that I'm complaining. But you haven't noticed?"  
  
Harry blinked. "Er, no. Can't say I did." The dance floor was one mysterious, moving blob that Harry tried his best to avoid. Oliver could've been seducing a rotting corpse out there for all he would've noticed.  
  
"It's awful, really; I can't believe you didn't see it before," Neville shook his head, poppysmiccing his pipe.   
  
"If Percy didn't deserve it, I might even do something about it," Ron said.  
  
Harry had been the first to find out that Percy and Oliver had become PercyAndOliver, by means of stumbling into an occupied stall in the Men's loo during one of Oliver's parties and finding them sloppily and quite drunkenly climbing all over each other. It took Harry a moment to remember that yes, the two of them lived on the same plane of existence and yes, they probably knew each other as they were in the same year in school. It took him a moment longer to realize that their movements were far too familiar and practiced for this to have been the first time they decided to wrestle tongues. But by then he was too distracted by Oliver's wink over Percy's shoulder to do say anything about it.  
  
"I've heard rumors," Dean, who had been a bit uncomfortable with discussions of Weasley sex ever since the whole Ginny debacle, said rather suddenly, "about a certain Mr. Weasley engaged in talks with _Ballycastle_?"  
  
"What?" Harry asked, turning to stare at Ron, who was probably blushing, but it was impossible to tell in the multicolored lights. "You're thinking of leaving the Cannons? Why?"  
  
"I just remembered I have to be anywhere but here," Lavender said with an eye roll, meandering toward the bar but getting sucked into the dance floor half way there.   
  
"I don't like it, but Ballycastles' been after me ever since Baker announced her retirement and they'd be able to more than triple my salary now--"  
  
"Wouldn't be hard, mate, the Cannons are the cheapest team in the league," Dean said.  
  
He continued with a glare, "-- and with Hermione probably pregnant again, we need a bigger place. We can't put three kids in one room."  
  
"Would you listen to him? Need a bigger place?" Ernie laughed. "You're what broke the Cannon curse, why they've won a single game this season, you should be able to afford _several_ bigger places."  
  
"They pay what they can," Ron said flatly, staring down at his half finished Butterbooze.  
  
There was an awkward beat of silence before Harry said, "Hermione's pregnant again?" Was that healthy? He wanted to ask. Instead, "I thought she was going back to work after Sebastian."  
  
"Yeah, trust me, that'd be best for everyone. She's getting a bit stir-crazy," Ron said, then smiled, "Sebastian's much easier than Edgar was, though. A good sleeper."  
  
"Right. Anyway," Harry wasn't sure if Seamus's disgusted look was for the names of Ron's sons or the turn the conversation had taken, "Harry, what's this I hear about your new housemate?"  
  
"He's not _new_ , he's always been there. He's just moving around now," Harry said, shifting uncomfortably under three sets of eyes. "And anyway, he left a while ago. No idea where he is."  
  
"Finally got your fill of the ferret?" Ernie sounded like he was trying to be encouraging.  
  
"Not really. I was willing to keep him til he got his NEWTs, actually."  
  
"You're a better man than I, I've always said that," Ernie was the only man Harry had ever met who was as ridiculous drunk as he was sober.  
  
"What if he failed, though?" asked Seamus.  
  
"I don't know, you'd have to ask him," Harry said. "I'd guess he'd go to Hogwarts and try again next year. But it doesn't matter, remember? I'll probably never see him again anyway."  
  
"Oh, I think you just might," Dean said.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, that's him, isn't it? With Crabbe?"  
  
Two new figures had entered the room, one ridiculously large, all chest and arms. Like a gorilla dressed in robes and taught proper posture. The second was slick and slender, robes glistening and sleek and Harry knew enough by now to recognize a personal tailor's touch.  
  
" . . . What you were hoping for?" Vincent Crabbe said, although Harry could barely hear it over the repetitive thud of the rotating stage.  
  
It was, if Malfoy's near cackle was any indication, quickly absorbed into a vibrating dance floor.  
  
Harry sniffed, then turned back to Dean. "Alright, I'll probably never have to have a conversation with him again."  
  
*  
  
"Cufflinks."  
  
Harry jerked in surprise; nearly choking on the Butterbooze he'd been nursing while waiting for Ron to come back from the loo, but that hadn't sounded anything like his voice.   
  
Malfoy was standing beside the table, scowling and eyes narrowed.   
  
"Pardon?" He asked weakly, looking around frantically for any sign of help, but none was forthcoming. Ernie had left at least an hour ago, Both Dean and Seamus were dancing and Neville was taking his chances with a blonde at the bar.   
  
"A set of cufflinks that had belonged to my great, great, great grandfather," Malfoy said, moving his head to meet Harry's gaze, cutting him off any hope of rescue. "They'd been passed down and I was so looking forward to wearing those at my wedding, but they were pure silver. They melted down all our silvers, I heard, to make sickles. Maybe I can just put two of those in my pocket and pretend."  
  
"That's . . . not very nice?"  
  
Malfoy didn't seem to hear. "My great grandmother's amulet, it'd been charmed with an invisibility spell by my great grandfather, so she could sneak out of the manor, because the Ministry thought they were Grindelwald supporters. He died that night, by the way. Accidental, the Aurors said, while getting questioned."  
  
"I don't--"   
  
"Father had a ring fitted for me, when I turned eleven. It was silver and engraved. I never took it off, not until I was marked. I left it on my bedside table, because I thought it'd be safer there than on my finger."  
  
"Why are you--"  
  
Malfoy put on hand on his hip and said mockingly, " _As if you can name me one thing that wasn't a form of currency or Dark Arts!_ Do you want me to keep going? I can. I can go all the way back to the fourteen hundreds, the cane carved from a dragon's talon. But know the only place _any_ of it exists now?"  
  
"Uhm," said Harry, slowly.   
  
" _It doesn't_ ," Malfoy hissed, leaning close. His breath was thickly sweet, tinged with alcohol. "My family's history doesn't exist outside of my _own head_."  
  
"Malfoy, I'm sorry," said Harry. And he was. But more importantly, he really wanted Malfoy to stop glaring at him. "I really am. If I could take back any part of this war, this would be it. But people were in need and I didn't know when --"  
  
"That doesn't give you any right--"  
  
"I know it doesn't!" Harry said. "We were bastards, the whole lot of us! We were thieves and grave robbers--"  
  
"That's right you were, and there's no excuse!"  
  
"There isn't, we ought to be punished or--"  
  
"Stop saying what I'm going to say!" Malfoy nearly screeched. "You ought to be -- you ought to pay me back but you _can't_."  
  
"There's nothing I can do now but tell you how sorry I am."  
  
"You're not sorry," Malfoy sneered. "You think my family deserved it. You--this whole world. Thinks it's better off without us."  
  
Harry sighed. " _You_ deserve your history. Anyone who says otherwise doesn't know enough to be judging anyway."  
  
Malfoy glared tightly, nearly twitching with restrained emotion. "Whatever, Potter." And tossed back a two fingered salute as he stormed off.  
  
This time, Harry was _really_ , truly sure that was the very last time Malfoy would bother to glance his way again. He wasn't sure why this made him the slightest bit depressed.  
  
*  
  
When the dance floor tossed Malfoy back to Harry's side, he was practically quivering, glistening with sweat and _reeking_ of Butterbooze.  
  
"Pot-Pot-Potty-Pot-Potter," he cackled, wrapping both arms around Harry's left, nuzzling his shoulder. Apparently he'd gotten over the whole 'loss of his identity' fixation. "I'm so glad you're sorry. Let's not fight anymore."  
  
"Uhm -- hi Malfoy," he winced at the damp mark that had to be on his sleeve now. "I don't think you should be drinking. Right now."  
  
"Oh please, Potter. I'm of age," his voice sounded more open than Harry had ever heard it, and he had the absurd urge to keep Malfoy close, knowing what damage could be done to a Malfoy with his guard so far down. He shoved the thought away quickly, refusing to feel protective of a blond who had described his parents' death as _sticky_. But it was bothersome that he even had that attitude; he'd been almost eager to show the Creevey brothers the joys of alcohol, had been more than happy with giving Ginny her first beer, even before she was of age. Why did he feel like he should be dragging Malfoy back home? "What are you doing to my arm?"  
  
What he meant to say was _why_ are you doing that to my arm, because he knew exactly what Malfoy was doing: poking at the embarrassingly light muscle he had there. It'd been a long while since his Quidditch days. "Potter, you should be a Quidditch player. Why aren't you a Quidditch player? I could be one, too, it would be fun, like before the war. Only with money instead of house points."  
  
"I'm a bit out of shape."  
  
"Shape? What shape do you need to be to sit a broom?" Malfoy's snort was greatly exaggerated, "I was twelve and beat a seventeen year-old without much difficulty, that'll tell you how far shape takes you!"  
  
"You're right, let's do it tomorrow," said Harry, pretty sure Malfoy would probably not want to be a professional Quidditch player tomorrow.  
  
"Right! Potter, you are very nice, you know that?"  
  
"So I've been told." Mostly by people who didn't know him very well, but still.  
  
"Well, you're not _nice_ ," Malfoy corrected, "but you're sorry, and you're good. You're a good bloke, and there's something I should tell you."  
  
"And what is that?"  
  
"I can't!" He pulled back, and sounded very serious indeed, staring at Harry with wide eyes.   
  
"I never thought I'd see the day a Malfoy couldn't do something," Harry said in a deadly serious tone.  
  
That did the trick, Malfoy started in a rushed tone, almost running over Harry. "Do you remember that _day_ where _you_ went to the room where Vol-Vol-Dark Lord was supposed to be? And then _I_ was there instead?" He was poking the upper half of Harry's arm with each emphasis.  
  
"Oh, vaguely."  
  
"Well . . . " He leaned forward as if to whisper, pale, thin lips nearly touching his ear, then speaking rather loudly into it, "I sent you there on _purpose_!"  
  
"Do tell?" Harry set aside his beer, turning to face Malfoy's overly earnest face.  
  
"Yes, you see," he stopped to blink a few times then, as he waited to remember what he'd been saying, "You see, I had to talk to you! Before you killed the Dark Lord."  
  
"I do see. What did you have to tell me?"  
  
"It's too late now!" Malfoy wailed, pulling free to grab Harry's drink and taking a deep swig without asking. "You won't believe me _now_ , it had to be before he died, that was the whole point!"  
  
"No, no we can pretend. What was it you wanted?"  
  
Malfoy seemed to consider, watching Harry out the corner of his eye while taking another sip. He set the mug down and licked his upper lip thoughtfully. "Say what you said the first time. When you very first walked into the room."  
  
"That was so long--"  
  
"So Voldemort forgave you after all!" Draco supplied impatiently.  
  
"So Voldemort forgave you af--"  
  
Malfoy had flung himself forward, clinging to Harry's chest and babbling into it, "You are an awful boy and I _hate_ you and I've done _terribly_ good things for you, so you can't look at me like I _stink_ anymore because I risked my neck for you and your bloody stupid order!"  
  
Harry stared down at the sleek, white blond hair that made up the top of Malfoy's head. He'd never seen anyone as blond as Malfoy, each strand was one consistent shade of white, from root to tip, as if he'd never been exposed to sunlight. "Malfoy . . . I don't think you stink."  
  
"Of course I don't stink, don't be stupid," Then the moment was over and Malfoy straightened neatly, going right back to his stolen beer. "It was very foolish of me to do, I realize that now. But I told you anyway, because a Malfoy can do anything."  
  
"Alright, I think you've had enough," he said, slowly wriggling the glass out of Malfoy's grasp.   
  
He'd once seen Crookshanks abruptly put a stop to feeding her litter, standing up and walking away before her kittens had finished suckling. He was strongly reminded of this as Malfoy tried to follow where the cup went, whimpering pathetically.  
  
"You are a terrible man, Potter," He gave up with a sour scowl, turning his back on Harry and no doubt going off to pout somewhere. Or get alcohol from whoever had given him some in the first place.  
  
"That was interesting," Ron said from behind, staring off after Malfoy and startling Harry.  
  
"Yeah," Harry agreed, shifting to the side to make room for Ron to sit next to him. "How long were you there?"  
  
"I came in about the time you convinced him to talk. You know, I used to have this vision of Malfoy as being this evil little mastermind," he said, shaking his head, "if only I'd known."  
  
"Well, he's evil and little. Two out of three isn't bad," Harry said, "and he _was_ a bit intimidating at thirteen."  
  
"Just because he said he was, we never should've believed him."  
  
"I think Crabbe and Goyle might've played a role in that," Harry pointed out.  
  
"Don't remind me," Ron groaned. "I spent all year waking up to images of Crabbe hurling Bludgers dancing in my head," Crabbe had stayed for an eighth year at Hogwarts, too. Like Ron, he'd made it onto his Quidditch team and apparently found it therapeutic way to relieve aggression without Malfoy to direct him. "Did you know he's a reserve Beater for Ballycastle? Another reason to avoid trading."  
  
Harry agreed, but it was distracted. He sincerely hoped Crabbe was keeping an eye on Malfoy, unless he wanted him to be blabbing his deepest secrets at the slightest hint. But it was a stupid thing to be so caught up with Draco Malfoy, so he paid very close attention to Ron discuss Hermione's newest novel idea, Fred and George's new branch of Weasley Wizarding Wheezes in Japan, and the conflict between the Cannons' newest Chaser and Seeker.  
  
"And he says it, at least five times a practice, it's pronounced Mc- _GEE_ , not Mc- _GAY_ , and then ten minutes later Gaffy'll yell out for Mc _GAY_ to pass the Quaffle already, and then McGeh will act like he doesn't know who Gaffy's talking to!" Ron said. "It's, hands down, the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen."  
  
Harry didn't get the chance to point out that this was probably not true, considering his older brother's expertise in the area, because Ron sat up abruptly and let out a surprised laugh.  
  
"Oliver is chatting up Malfoy!" Harry would've laughed Ron's flabbergasted expression if his own neck hadn't nearly snapped when turning to see. Indeed, Wood had a kind, interested smile on his face as he sat at a very inappropriate closeness to the blond, Malfoy's hands moving animatedly as he babbled on about something.  
  
Harry never learned to lip read, but he had no problem figuring out what Wood was saying when he invited Malfoy out onto the dance floor.  
  
"What does he think he's doing?" Harry's voice was more surprised then angry, and thankfully Ron only picked up on the first half.  
  
"Looks like getting Percy's knickers in a twist," Ron said.  
  
Harry barely bothered with a quick glance to Percy, who looked like his underwear was very knotted indeed. If he was trying to look disinterested he was failing miserably, entire body sort of bent to witness the skeptical Wood and Malfoy were making of themselves. But watching Percy wasn't very entertaining, and Harry stood and started toward them without another word.  
  
They were already on the dance floor, Harry could practically see the little hearts drifting off of Malfoy's head as Wood lead him to a rather deserted spot, and he felt ill. Had Malfoy no shame? He'd given no indication of being interested in men at _all_ , yet was obviously willing to pretend just to sit on Wood's coattails. Or was Wood honestly just taking advantage of Malfoy's drunken state? Neither of the options sat particularly well with Harry and he didn't want to think as to why.  
  
He was just staring up at Wood, still talking, and Harry had no idea how Wood could make out a single word coming out of Malfoy's mouth.   
  
He was jostled by a particularly energetic couple then, nearly falling over. By the time they'd apologized drunkenly and Harry spotted Malfoy and Wood again, they were doing a lot more than talking.  
  
Malfoy had plastered himself to Wood's front, and of course, Wood had wrapped himself around Malfoy, his hands curtaining Malfoy's hips. Neither of them were dancing to the fast paced music as much as grinding against each other.  
  
If he didn't know Malfoy's buttons better than he knew his own, he might've had a time breaking up the scene. As it was . . .  
  
"Didn't know you were a pouf, Malfoy," he said it right into that small, pale ear, and if Harry hadn't been told of Malfoy's magic fatigue, he would've sworn he used a levitating charm to get away from Wood's embrace so quickly. It wasn't broken completely, though, and Harry couldn't tear his eyes away from Wood's fingers resting against the curve of Malfoy's backside.  
  
"Shut up!" Malfoy's blush was so sudden and vibrant against his skin, someone could've smeared a cheery from cheek to cheek.  
  
"What's wrong, mate?" Wood asked, staring at Harry in surprise, blinking drunkenly.  
  
Harry found himself at a loss for words, but just for a second. "He's 17 and plastered, Oliver. You tell me."  
  
" _So?_ " Malfoy's impudent demand went ignored, Wood started at Harry for a moment, then sighed and finally released his hold on Malfoy's hips.  
  
"Wasn't doing the trick anyway." He said, with a rueful glance toward Percy who was doing a better job at pretending he didn't want to be there than usual. "Maybe. . . ."  
  
"Maybe what?" was what Harry tried to say, but it came out more like, "Ermfah hut?" and the only one who could hear it was Oliver's mouth. Which actually doesn't have ears so nobody heard it.  
  
"I didn't know you were a pouf, Potter!" Malfoy crowed from somewhere behind him, sounding positively blissful.  
  
He hated it when Oliver got drunk.  
  
Oliver released him and gave an apologetic smile before giving a sidelong look at Percy, who was sitting up a bit straighter now.  
  
"Right, I think that did it. Here, just sit with me over here for a while?" Oliver asked, moving to one of the booths. "We don't have to do anything, but he won't be able to see us and it'll drive him crazy."  
  
"You have the most dysfunctional relationship I have ever seen," Harry said, glad Oliver hadn't tried to slip him any tongue.  
  
"We work," he said with a shrug and easy smile.   
  
"I'll take your word on that," Harry said,   
  
"So what is he to you?" Oliver asked as they watched Malfoy dance with three different girls at once.  
  
"Nothing," Harry said. "The most he's ever been was a loader that didn't pay."  
  
"You're awful protective of a freeloader," Oliver said. "Thought you were going to try take a swing at me out on the floor."  
  
"He-- you don't know him. He's not a Death Eater, but he's certainly not a nice man."  
  
"Oh, so you were protecting me from him?" He laughed.   
  
"It made sense at the time." Except it hadn't. He'd just known it had to end.  
  
"If you're quite finished," Percy, who apparently had gained the ability to pop up out of floorboards, said tightly, glaring down at Oliver with an honest hatred.  
  
Harry watched in horror as Oliver stretched casually, wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulders. "So soon?"  
  
"Soon?" Percy was dangerously close to the lovely shade of puce that Uncle Vernon so often turned, his hands fisted at his sides. "If you call two in the morning soon, then yes. Soon. Right away."  
  
"Alright then. See you around, Harry--" Oliver's arm was clinched in Percy's tight grip, but he looked nothing but amused at getting manhandled toward the exit.  
  
*  
  
"Potter! Wait up!"  
  
Harry blinked blurrily at Malfoy, who was waving frantically as he made his way through the still moving floor, then whacked Ron's tensing shoulder, "It's alright, I'll just talk to him a bit. You go home."  
  
"M'kay." Ron didn't put up much argument, shrugging on the leather Chudley Cannon jacket that had always given him a bit a resemblance of a pilot to Harry, and heading for the door.  
  
"What's it?" Harry asked, finding it much strangely easier to focus when his eyes were closed, instead of looking down at Malfoy's face.  
  
"Potter, you are sorry. You said you were sorry."  
  
"I am sorry." Harry nodded, hoping Malfoy didn't want to rehash the entire incident. "I'd pay you back if I could."  
  
"Your bed," Malfoy suddenly whispered, so Harry had to lean forward to hear the rest, and Malfoy was breathing on his cheek. "Is so much softer than Crabbe's."  
  
That wasn't right. "You're sleeping in Crabbe's bed?"  
  
"Mm-hmm," he hummed. "He sleeps on the couch. But I like your bed better. It smells . . . "  
  
"Bad?"  
  
"It smells like you." Malfoy smiled then, very brightly, and Harry's throat went dry. "Can I sleep in your bed, Potter?"  
  
Every brilliant suggestion _ever_ made suddenly paled, just a bit. The idea of Malfoy sleeping in Harry's bed was so fantastic, all Harry could wonder was why hadn't he thought of it before? Malfoy could spend the rest of his life in Harry's bed, if he wanted. He managed to keep his voice steady as he answered, "If you really want to."  
  
"I do."  
  
"Let's go," It was very important that he got Malfoy to his bed.  
  
*  
  
Malfoy barely managed to stumble to the stairs, mumbling angrily at any clumsy offer of assistance.  
  
"Did _you_ know Vol-Volde--" he huffed and frowned thoughtfully before managing to spit out, " _Voldemort_ likes blonds."  
  
"Really?" Harry said, wondering if Malfoy was bragging or not. He attempted to rest a light hand on that thin elbow in case something tipped the plastered boy's fragile balance, but missed completely and nearly knocked both of them down the stairs they'd managed to climb.  
  
"Yes, he always has mother and me seated closest to him," he said with a tiny scowl. Everything about Malfoy was tiny, young. Pretty. Harry smiled, not caring that it was probably very goofy looking, "he touches mother a lot. Her neck. Father wouldn't approve, but mother says we shouldn't tell him, he has enough worries, yeah? I should do something about it, though, next time. But he's so--"  
  
"I killed Voldemort," Harry pointed out, exasperated that Malfoy could've forgotten, "there won't _be_ a next time, remember?"  
  
Malfoy was silent for a moment, eyes narrowing as he peered up into the empty hallway they were climbing to, then nearly tipped backward. He would've fallen if Harry's firm hand hadn't landed on his back.  
  
"Sometimes, some-some days he feels weaker, when the Horcruxes are broken, and he get mean and he _slaps_ her. I should do something, if I were better; next time, I promise next time--"  
  
"Malfoy, Voldemort is dead, _there won't be a next time_!"  
  
"Shut up, I know," but he sounded frustrated and confused. He doubled over so abruptly, this time Harry couldn't stop him from falling, but it was forward and he landed safely on the flat, hall floor. The wail he let out was so very pained Harry would've thought he'd been stabbed if it weren't for the words spilling out. "Oh she's _dead_ , mum's dead, I couldn't -- I thought she was saved but she's _dead_!"  
  
Harry hated it when people cried. He _hated_ it, hated how Malfoy's shoulders were unnaturally stuff, how he was sniffling; the echoes of his broken sobs were driving him mad and he wanted to shake Malfoy, tell him to _stop_ and be a bloody _man_ like Harry _always_ was, but when he gathered Malfoy's thin shoulders and forced him up, that face, that pained, pointed, scarred little _doll's_ face, shaking was the last thing he wanted to do.  
  
The lips he pressed his own to were warm and wet and trembling, and when he opened his eyes he saw confused, panicked ones staring back. Malfoy was releasing his air in tight, nervous hicks, and they tickled Harry's bottom lip.  
  
Squelching determinedly on the building disgust in himself, he stood and left Malfoy's hunched, shaking form on the landing. He reached the guestroom and closed the door firmly against Malfoy's small fists just beginning to hit the floor, and the wailing started up again.   
  
**  
  
Sunlight was just beginning to creep across the floor when Harry woke to the very pressing need to vomit.  
  
He clamored out of the bed and to the bathroom in one clumsy, frantic move, his stomach forcing up the partially digested mess just as he reached the toilet. He wanted to brush his teeth but the most his throbbing headache would allow was a quick rinse of his mouth.  
  
It was on his blurry way back to bed that he noticed Malfoy had passed out in the hallway, and tucked himself into a corner.   
  
He was surprisingly easy to lift, didn't even twitch when Harry stubbed his toe in the doorway and cursed loudly. Or when Harry nearly collapsed next to him and decided it was really too much of a bother to get up and move back to the spare room, instead curling around Malfoy's body and falling back to sleep.  
  
*  
  
"God, my face feels like it's been trampled by a hippogriff." Malfoy strolled into the hallway bathroom without knocking, tugging on his face then pushing his cheeks together comically. "You didn't put a hippogriff on my face last night, did you?"   
  
"Not that I can remember," Harry said, wetting his toothbrush before adding the paste, relief ballooning in his chest. Malfoy had forgotten what happened last night, or was pretending to. Either way was good enough for him. He was grateful enough he'd managed to wake before Malfoy, and disentangle himself from the blond's surprisingly good impression of a koala.  
  
Malfoy paused, staring at Harry in the mirror and cocking his head to the side.  
  
"You're Harry."   
  
"'N yowr Dwaco," Harry said around his toothbrush, giving the Malfoy in the mirror as a confused look as he could manage this early in the morning.  
  
"No, _hairy_ , as in a lot of hair," he said, his nose wrinkled up delicately.  
  
Harry spit out a glob of toothpastey mess and chuckled, "You mean this?" He touched the fuzz across his chest that was too light to do anything but make him look a bit tanned, "if you think this is bad you must look like a prepubescent girl."  
  
Malfoy gave an offended snort, hands on his hips, "I'll have you know--"  
  
"Why are you in my bathroom?" Harry really wasn't in the mood for a Malfoy rant, not this early in the morning, not after last night.  
  
It seemed to take a second for Malfoy to remember, just staring at Harry's chest. Finally, he blinked and met Harry's gaze, "Because--because you took the good soap out of my bathroom."  
  
"You mean I took the soap that _I_ paid for out of _my_ bedroom's bathroom to my hall bathroom so I could use it? I did that at least three days before you left."  
  
"Exactly, and you didn't even tell me," he grabbed the soap and shook it at Harry with a scowl. "For shame, Potter."  
  
"How can you not have a hangover?" Harry said disgustedly, grabbing the still moving bar of soap and chucking it back into the shower.  
  
"It must be from my superior breeding," Malfoy said with a content smile that no doubt supposed to be an arrogant smirk. "I feel better than I have in months, actually."  
  
He wondered if Malfoy's breakdown in the hall could've helped with that, and couldn't help but remember initial reaction to the news, the anger. Of course, Harry hadn't given him many options, had he?  
  
"I'm not gay." It was abrupt at best.  
  
Harry stared.  
  
"Last night, with Oliver. You said that I was a pouf, and I'm not."  
  
Harry stared a moment longer. He really _had_ forgotten, then? "Alright then."  
  
"Good."  
  
Harry turned to the sink and grabbed the shaving cream, squeezing out a decent blob.   
  
"You know, I didn't think you were until this moment."  
  
Surprise went to frustration in the blink of an eye and Malfoy stormed out without another word.  
  
*  
  
"Nice book?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You've read pretty far."  
  
"Yes, it's a good book."  
  
"I'm not gay, you know."  
  
"Whatever you say, Malfoy."  
  
*  
  
"I _know_ how to use the clicker, thank you very much."  
  
"I wouldn't've guessed with how loud the telly is."  
  
"Maybe I like it that loud."  
  
"Maybe you're full of shit. Just turn it down."  
  
" . . . I'm not gay."  
  
"You know, each time you say it, the less convinced I become."  
  
*  
  
"Are you going to finish that?"  
  
"Hm? The bacon? No."  
  
"I like girls, you know," Malfoy said it casually, reaching for Harry's plate.  
  
"Yes, girls are very nice."  
  
"Not really. I think they're demanding and whiny, but I like them for their _bodies_."  
  
"I see. That's very non-pouf of you."  
  
"So you believe me now?"  
  
"Of course not."  
  
"You realize I could be calling _you_ a pouf for kissing Wood back, right?" Malfoy demanded hotly.  
  
"But you haven't."  
  
Malfoy looked ridiculously smug, "You, Potter, are a pouf."  
  
Harry nodded, "Yes, I am."  
  
He blinked twice, then, "Oh, ha ha. I'm not falling for it."  
  
"For what?"  
  
"You think I'll say something like, 'Oh, since you're admitting _you're_ a pounce, I'll say I am, too!' And then you'll say, 'Ha! Got you! I'm not really a pounce, I was just doing it so you would admit it!' But it won't work because I have nothing to admit! I had a girlfriend, you know. We _did_ things."  
  
Harry really hoped he didn't sound anything like Malfoy's impression of him. "Oh no, I'm very gay. I've had boyfriends, we've _done_ things, too."  
  
Malfoy stared, mouth half open, clearly ready to say something, but shook his head to clear it abruptly. "It's not going to work."  
  
"Whatever you say, Malfoy."  
  
*  
  
"Do Muggles like pudding?" Malfoy asked him idly one night, stabbing at a plate of scrambled eggs something he'd taken a particular shining to and refused to eat anything else going on three days.   
  
"Everyone likes pudding," Harry said, and just as quickly as he resolved not to ask, he broke down and said, "Why?"  
  
"A few groups of them came to the front garden earlier. They demanded pudding and said they wouldn't leave without it."  
  
" . . . What?"  
  
"I think they might've been joking, because when I told the last group to go away because I didn't have any figgy pudding they laughed--"  
  
"Figgy pudding?" A quick glance at the calendar told him that indeed, it was the first week of December. Caroling season. "Malfoy, were they singing?"   
  
"Chanting, more like." Malfoy said, swallowing a particularly large lump of egg.   
  
"Those were carolers! They didn't really want any pudding, it's just a song. You told them to leave?" If any of them had had neighbors that lived close he wouldn't hear the end of it.  
  
Malfoy looked offended. "Of course! How could I know _'we won't go until we get some'_ was supposed to be _lyrics_? Right genius' those Muggles breed." He muttered the last bit, rolling his eyes derisively.  
  
Harry pretended he didn't hear him, because he really couldn't think of any sort of defense. He'd never liked the song, honestly. "You didn't have to send them away. You could've just gone into another room."  
  
"I couldn't _ignore_ them. What did they want, anyway?"  
  
"To-- well, they go door to door singing and you usually give them bits of change or biscuits, but they mostly do it for fun."  
  
"So they're beggars?"  
  
"They _mostly_ do it for fun," Harry emphasized.  
  
"Father used to kick beggars," Malfoy sighed, staring off over Harry's shoulder at some memory so intently, he wouldn't have been surprised to see a pensieve propped up behind him. "He didn't like to use his cane because he could spell clean his shoes but not his wand, and sometimes he had to handle that without his gloves, and that's really just a step away from actually _touching_ one of them. Could you imagine?" he shuddered in disgust, then stabbed a particularly globby piece of egg.  
  
" . . . You're a very terrible person," Harry said finally.  
  
"No, it was my _father_ that kicked them," Malfoy said rolling his eyes.  
  
"And I suppose you gave them galleons?"  
  
Malfoy's mouth fell open. "Potter, they don't _bathe_. They've probably _never_ bathed. Do you know how close I'd have to get to --" He shuddered, the thought apparently too sickening to even put into words. "I can't even eat anymore. Thanks a lot, Potter. I'm going to shower."  
  
Harry watched Malfoy leave, knowing he ought to have something to say to that, ought to be able to put Malfoy in his place. He knew there was a time when Malfoy spouting comments like that would've sent his teeth on edge, but he couldn't quite remember _why_.  
  
*  
  
"Potter, what are you doing?" His voice was just slightly muffled, and Harry could picture him pressing his face and hands against the closet door rather easily.  
  
"Sitting in a closet."  
  
"Well _obviously_." The door flew open and the bright hallway light behind them turned Malfoy's features into one, solid black smudge. "I mean why."  
  
"Because I feel like sitting in a closet."  
  
"Move over." He was forcing his way into Harry's space, pointy knees digging uncomfortably into his lower leg until Harry jerked it away to sit cross-legged. Malfoy had begun shifting through the shoes and umbrellas that littered the floor of the closet.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"Figuring out what you're really up to."  
  
"I told you--"  
  
"Oh yes, the savior of the wizarding world spends his evenings enjoying the timeless backdrop of his _closet_."  
  
"Fine then, believe whatever you want."  
  
Harry watched the blond poke through his belongings a moment longer, running a hand along the wall before apparently deciding he wasn't going to find whatever he was looking for. He settled on the opposite side of the closet, looking over at Harry with new eyes.  
  
"Potter, why are you sitting in a closet?" The door, finally did what it'd been threatening for the past minute, and drifted shut. They sat in the darkness for a moment. Malfoy shifted, "In the dark."  
  
"Just-- because. You wouldn't understand."  
  
"Probably true. But I'm very curious, just what has got the brave Harry Potter hiding in his closet?"  
  
"I'm not hiding, I'm just stressed," Harry said shortly. "And you're not helping."  
  
"And you've decided to deal with this stress by bonding with your jackets and shoes?"  
  
How was Harry supposed to describe the inexplicable safety he felt in small spaces? How as a child the only place he knew he couldn't be yelled at was in his cupboard, because the cupboard's cramped walls were something the Dursleys thought beneath them? The cupboard had been his own, sad little sanctuary, and he was somewhat disgusted with himself for allowing it to become so ingrained in him, but there it was.  
  
"I wanted some space," He said finally.  
  
"I'll overlook the fact that this is probably the smallest closet I've ever seen for the sake of conversation," Malfoy said in that drawling tone that Harry had somehow grown accustom to. "What in your life could possibly cause you enough stress that you need space? "  
  
"I got fired."  
  
" . . . You had a _job_?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I never saw you leaving. Well, I saw you leave, but not looking job-y."  
  
"And now you know why I got fired."  
  
"You have your parents' inheritance, though?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Malfoy's small toes were wriggling against his legs. "I'm having a hard time understanding the problem."  
  
"Malfoy, I hadn't gone in for three months. Three months and they just now got around to firing me."  
  
"I'm _really_ not getting the problem, then. Are they not paying you for those months? Because I think you probably don't deserve it anyway--"  
  
"I should've been fired three months ago! The only reason they even hired me is because of my name," Harry watched the words running out of his mouth in surprise. "The world sees me as an icon, not a person. The Ministry wanted me for my name, and so does everyone else."  
  
"I knew those Weasleys were just riding on your coattails!" Malfoy said gleefully. Harry guessed he made an exuberant hand gesture of victory because there was a sudden thud and he mumbled "Ow," a second later.  
  
"No, the Weasleys have always been really great," Harry said quickly.  
  
"So . . . you're upset because your boss doesn't know the real you? I think most people are happy with it that way."  
  
Harry frowned. Could Malfoy really not have any idea what he was trying to say? "I'm upset because every other wizard or witch on the planet assumes that they know me, but they honestly couldn't give a shit about _me_ \--"  
  
"You are the biggest pounce I have ever met!" Malfoy said with a laugh, "Oh woe is me, I'm Harry Potter, the whole world knows my name because I saved them but -- oh no -- no one knows the real me! Except for every single one of my friends, of course. But I want _everyone_ who knows my name to know the real me! How in the world are they supposed to do that Potter? Not everyone can learn Occlumency, you know."  
  
"That's _not_ why I'm upset."  
  
"Then why did you say it?"  
  
"I -- how would you feel if you knew that everything you did after a certain point in your life wouldn't matter? At all? That people would always remember you for that moment, and being stuck there--"  
  
"I'd be happy to be _known_ , you fantastic knob! Stop whining and think about fifty years from now, seventy. Who's going to be in the history books? You. Not me, not Weasley, not any of your Gryffindor friends. Just you and Dumbledore. Are you really so depressed that you won't have a little footnote next to your name that says, 'And by the way, after the war, Harry Potter held down the fluff job the Ministry gave him _brilliantly_.'" He took a deep breath, apparently ready to go off _again_ , when the closet door flew open.  
  
Both Harry and Malfoy blinked at the sudden light, staring up at the newcomer.  
  
Ron's familiar blue eyes darting between to two of them.  
  
"Uhm," he looked between Malfoy and Harry then decided. "if you're busy I can come back--"  
  
"Oh, he is. He's busy mourning the fact that he has a perfect life," Malfoy said, standing to brush past Ron with his chin in the air, kicking the closet shut with his heel. Malfoy's voice was muffled just slightly, "He should be done moping in a bit, if you want to wait in the sitting room."  
  
"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" Ron sounded truly baffled. Harry stood and opened the door, scowling at Malfoy, who had his chin up, but it was rather difficult to look down at a Weasley.   
  
"A Malfoy is always exactly where he should be, doing exactly what he wants," he was saying primly, as if he were looking dead into Ron's eyes and not level with his collarbone.  
  
"Right," Harry said quickly, not willing to risk the chance of this escalating into anything more. Ron had mellowed, certainly, but Malfoy didn't seem to have any problem pulling the most base instincts out of Harry. "Ron, what's the occasion?"  
  
"Well, I can't stay long," Ron said, watching Malfoy turn on his heel and march off. "Just dropped by to say we're celebrating Christmas a day late this year. A group of Muggles meandered onto Charlie's dragon reserve yesterday, and with all the memory charms and hospital care and paper work, he's not going to be able to break free till late Christmas day."  
  
"Aren't there charms to prevent that sort of thing?" Harry asked, wondering at the possibility of him accidentally walking into an angry dragon's territory.  
  
"Normally, but they must've worn off. They're not sure when, it's been so long since any Muggle's been anywhere near it," Ron said with a shrug. "It's bad, but it'll give me a day to catch up on some shopping. Hermione helps with most of it, but I don't have a clue as to what to get _her_."  
  
"A book?" Harry suggested. He'd picked up, _Memoirs of the Ugliest Troll Lordess_ sometime in November.  
  
Ron waved that off, "A _good_ gift, I mean."  
  
"Of course," Harry said flatly, but Ron didn't seem to notice.  
  
"Oh, we should still be having some dinner thing on Christmas, though. And, are you bringing your coat rack? Or is he going to some Slytherin thing?"  
  
"If you'll have him," Harry said, eyebrows going up in surprise at the casual acceptance.  
  
"I know Fred and George were thankful when they found out he was the one to stop the attack on Diagon Alley. Mum, too," He shrugged, and Harry had to wonder at the suspicious lack of Bill's name. Ron couldn't have forgotten, would it really not be a problem? "I'll tell them to set another plate. Really, no worries."   
  
"If you're sure," Harry settled on, walking with Ron to the chimney.  
  
From the couch, Malfoy watched Ron leave with suspicious eyes, and only once the smoke had cleared from the Floo did he turn his gaze to Harry, eyebrow raising in question.  
  
"We've gotten an invite to the Burrow to celebrate Christmas."  
  
"The Burrow? Sounds like code for some Gryffindor lair," Malfoy said with a laugh.  
  
"It's the Weasleys' house."  
  
" . . . Oh."  
  
"I imagine there will be plenty of other topics of discussion outside of our old school houses," Harry said, rolling his eyes.  
  
Malfoy seemed to play with the idea, tossing an orange back and forth thoughtfully. "What's the alternative?"  
  
"Death," Harry said flatly, wondering why he'd even bothered.  
  
"On one condition," he said after a moment, finally cutting through the orange's peel with neat, girlish fingernails. "You give me enough pocket money to buy Snape a proper gift."  
  
"I'm not going to _bribe_ you into having a happy Christmas," Harry said.  
  
"I sincerely doubt this Burrow place will be the ideal setting for that," Malfoy scowled, no doubt recalling the splendor of a Malfoy Christmas, dropping orange peels off the side of the couch casually.  
  
"If you're having a bad time, you'll be able to leave," Harry said. "And if you want something -- like pocket money -- you can ask for it. Trying to manipulate it out of me will just irritate me."  
  
"I really am your kept boy, then?" He didn't even look up as he said it, freeing a particularly large piece of orange peel.  
  
"Don't get ahead of yourself, now. That would imply you did something to be kept for," Harry said flatly.  
  
"I make sure your tiny people never get lonely," He said simply, then smiled most winningly at Harry with an orange peel for teeth.   
  
Harry left the room making noises about the stove and kitchen before he cracked a smile and gave Malfoy the false impression that such immaturity was amusing.  
  
*  
  
Harry hadn't realized how much he'd been looking forward to celebrating Christmas with someone in _his_ home for once, until he saw Malfoy walking toward the Floo around noon on Christmas day.  
  
"You're leaving?" he asked, staring down at a _Robert blew out the light bulb and surrendered to sleep_ , and pretending he found it interesting.  
  
"Yes, I've planned to spend Christmas with Snape, then I'll drop by Zabini's, see if he'll curse me on sight. Figure Christmas is the best time to hope for forgiveness."  
  
"Oh yeah?" Harry cursed the near clipped way it came out. He'd been trying for nonchalant.   
  
He stopped, turning to face Harry, "What?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"You're jealous?" Harry was surprised at how close Malfoy's eyebrows could get to his hairline.  
  
"Of course not." He really did sound casual that time. He was fairly sure.  
  
"You really are something, Potter," he said, all raised chin and huffed chest, as if Harry had collapsed on the ground and begged him to stay. "Even if I weren't planning on spending the entire day with you tomorrow, you would deny a godfather his right to see his godson? On _Christmas?_ "  
  
"I'm not denying you anything! Go, have fun!"  
  
Malfoy smirked, "I'll pick you up something pretty."  
  
But before Harry could point out that all the pretty-buying was funded by Harry himself, Malfoy had stepped into the fire and disappeared with a sharp POP.  
  
**  
  
(I was originally going to post this as a separate interlude, but it became too important for the plot :P So just. Like. Think interludey)  
  
  
"Draco."  
  
"You don't look very surprised."   
  
"It would be odd if I did, can't say I feel very surprised." Zabini smirked, but it came off as warm, somehow. "Come in, please,"  
  
By 'come in' he meant 'walk further in,' because Draco was already in. Zabini had a proper pureblood home, even more so than the manor had been; where ancient Malfoys had embellished the lavish entrance hall, the Zabinis were new to money and hadn't even bothered with a front door when designing their home, making one rely entirely on magical means to enter. It was literally impossible for a Muggle to enter their home unaided short of an open window or the walls crumbling.  
  
It's very modern, Lucius had always said with a mild sneer.  
  
"Here to wish me a happy Christmas?" He asked with a note of amusement as he led Draco into a dimly lit sitting room. To look around his home, one could've easily mistaken it for the middle of September, there were no signs of a major holiday being celebrated that very day.   
  
"Among other things," Draco said, almost quietly as he glanced around, absorbing the changes in Zabini's home. He'd been there many times before, but that was when his mother --who had died very mysteriously three years previous if his information had been correct and if he hadn't muddled up the details because of the drunken haze he'd been in -- was head of house.  
  
The halls looked honest now, where before Miss Zabini had littered it with false signs of comfort and hominess. Flower pots and knickknacks resting neatly on doilies, things neither of the constant occupants had any interest in.   
  
Blaise obviously couldn't care less if Draco was impressed with the changes in décor, not even bothering to light the lanterns in the hall. In fact the only light Draco could see was in the room Blaise had presumably had been in before Draco came to call.  
  
"And what things are those?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know, catching up with a friend felt like a good enough reason all on its own," Draco said with what he knew was a winning smile.  
  
It worked well enough and Blaise smirked back.  
  
"I heard you're staying with Potter again," Zabini said, handing over a cup of tea that warmed Draco's hands pleasantly.  
  
"I am," Draco said, blowing lightly on the drink before setting it back down on the table.  
  
Zabini took a quick sip, "I'd ask why but I probably have a better idea than you anyway."  
  
Zabini could irritate him faster than anyone he'd ever met. Well, outside of Potter, but Potter was a special case, he just sort of naturally stumbled onto Draco's buttons. Zabini did it intentionally and with much more force.   
  
A lesser wizard would've left, Draco was sure.  
  
"Enlighten me," he said sourly, hoping Zabini appreciated his patience.  
  
Blaise smiled, but it wasn't at all malicious, and Draco couldn't remember a single time he'd smiled so sincerely, not even at eleven. Not even when Draco had gotten detention for that tussle with a Ravenclaw sixth year over an insult aimed at Zabini's mother. It looked familiar, though, and Draco had to wonder -- not at all _bitterly_ , mind --who he'd been smiling at like that.  
  
"You want Potter's attention. You always have."  
  
Ah, alright then. "You're insane, Zabini. Your entire family is."  
  
"Our whole year knew it," Zabini went on, still smiling. "You were obsessed with him. You had everything but paper clippings of him hanging above your bed."  
  
"Shut up! I was not, he was just too bloody annoying to ignore! Still is, do you know what he's doing now? Pretending to be a pouf."  
  
"Another impressive feat, considering he _is_ ," he said.  
  
"As if you could _possibly_ know that."  
  
Zabini raised his eyebrows as he took another sip.  
  
" . . . _How_ do you know that?"  
  
"The same way I know about you."   
  
"So you -- you and Potter?" Once in Charms, Vincent had accidentally moved a chair Draco had been moving to sit down on. Draco was strongly reminded of that sudden wave of disorientation and vertigo and he gripped the arms of the chair lightly, "For-- how many times?"  
  
Zabini laughed, "Oh yes, you just find him _annoying_."  
  
Draco just stared.  
  
"It was years ago, Draco. Barely qualifies as a groping session, really," Zabini shrugged. "He was drunk and I was . . . well, evil."  
  
"But he was _drunk_ , you just said it," Draco said, trying to use the small bit of relief to smother the unnerving burst of disappointment.  
  
"Alcohol lowers your inhibitions, it doesn't create new ones," said Zabini, in a way he often spoke to first years he was somewhat fond of. Draco kind of wanted to hit him. "Draco, the war is over. It has been for a while. You don't have any reason to keeping lying to yourself."  
  
"I am not," was spit out between clenched teeth, "and if I wanted to talk about Harry Potter, I would've gone to some Gryffindor's house."  
  
"School is over, too."  
  
"Really, thanks for that. Any other startling revelations you have to unleash while I'm still sitting?"  
  
"He wants you, too."  
  
It actually was a good thing Draco was still sitting, because even as he was already forming an argument he knew Zabini was almost never wrong. "If he wanted me he would've done something about it by now."  
  
"Why would he? You're living with him, you're not taking interest in anyone else," Zabini shrugged. "He can take his time choosing whatever move he wants to make and when he wants to make it."  
  
Draco snickered, "And you think he's cunning enough to have thought all that through, do you?"  
  
"Oh no, it's probably along a more basic line of thought," Zabini said, eyes squinting as he attempted to envision what a Gryffindor-ish line of thought would be like. "Maybe . . . 'Malfoy, _good_.'"  
  
"As fascinating as the inner workings of Potter's mind is," Draco said, trying to keep himself from smiling. "I'd be depressed if we didn't have anything better to discuss after five years."  
  
But he had a hard time focusing on the discuss of the Minister of Magic's sickeningly strict policy on House Elf employment, finding himself replaying the flash of obvious jealousy in Potter's face instead.

 

~~~~~~

 

 

 

When Harry stumbled back through the Floo he found Draco nearly twitching on the settee. The telly was on, and he was staring at the screen, but he wasn't watching it.  
  
His head snapped up at Harry's entrance, and he jumped to his feet. "You realize three different Weasleys have been here, asking for you? They think I've done something awful to you, you know."  
  
"Ah, sorry. I didn't know I'd be so long."   
  
"Where were you?"  
  
"Er, some last minute shopping. Come on then, to the Burrow?"  
  
"You're gay."  
  
Harry stopped and stared. "How did you ever figure out my deepest, darkest secret?"  
  
"Knock it off!" Malfoy said and Harry immediately sobered. "This is -- this is _serious_."  
  
"Malfoy, it's not serious. It's not even interesting, really, and considering my track record lately, I might as well be asexual."  
  
He was staring down at his toes. "It _is_ important. And I think --"  
  
"If you say Harry's still 'gone' and you 'don't know where he could've gotten to' -- Oh. Hey Harry!" Fred or George's head bobbed in the fireplace. "Coming over?"  
  
"Yeah, I'll be in there in just a tick," he said, staring straight at Malfoy.   
  
"Er, alright then," Fred or George said hesitantly. "Just holler if you need any help."  
  
"I think I've got it," Harry said shortly, and the fire popped back to flames. "What were you saying?"  
  
Malfoy licked his upper lip. "I think I should leave. Go back to Spinner's End."  
  
. . . Oh. "Oh."  
  
"It's not that you're _gay_ , really, that I think I should," Malfoy went on, tone noticeably lighter. "It'll be simpler, is all."  
  
There was a sharp ache forming right above Harry's eye. He found this often happened when he tried to follow Malfoy logic. "How on _earth_ would that be more simple?"  
  
"Oh, because you'll be bringing these prospective men here, where _I'll_ be, and it would turn into this sticky mess."  
  
"Step me through that last bit again?"  
  
"Because I'm so handsome and dashing," he said it like he was trying to jog Harry's memory. "They’ll leave you the second I walk through the door. You'd have to give me notice not to come out and it'd just be . . . sticky."  
  
Malfoy bobbed on his heels under Harry's stare.  
  
"While that is very thoughtful of you," he said. "I really don't think it's necessary."  
  
"Why not?" He was now watching Harry carefully, eagerly, practically leaning forward to get a better look.  
  
It was only then that Harry realized he was being tested. "Because I've fallen madly in love with you, of course."  
  
Malfoy blinked. Malfoy scowled. "Is that supposed to be funny?"  
  
Harry sighed. "Malfoy, I want you here. And this may just be a mark of how pathetic my life has become, but you're good company. But if the fact that there is a remote possibility I might be interested in you is too much for you to take, then you're free to leave at any time." He grabbed a handful of Floo powder, unable to meet Malfoy's face as he tossed it into the fire. "I'll be waiting at the Burrow if you decide to stay."  
  
*  
  
" _Harry_!" A high-pitched rocket collided with Harry's middle and it took him a moment to recognize Bill and Fleur daughter, Eloise, attaching herself to his stomach. Toddling at a much slower pace behind her was Edgar, Hermione's oldest, squealing _"Har-ee!"_ to make up for his lack of speed.  
  
"Happy Christmas," Harry said, smiling down at the girl with strawberry blonde hair and freckles.  
  
"This is my second Christmas this year, you know," she chirped, taking his hand and walking him toward the den. Fleur had to be dismayed at the complete lack of a French accent. "My real one was in France with Aunt Gabriella."  
  
"This one is just as real, I think."  
  
Edgar had finally reached him, and begun bouncing up and down as much as one with so little balance dared, waving his arms up at Harry persuasively. Harry could only resist wild red hair and whimpers for so long and Edgar had been on the upswing while he made his way into the den, where a sea of smiling faces waited.  
  
"Harry!" Came simultaneous calls from Ron and Hermione, and there was about five minutes of blurred hugs and laughs as redheaded people and their various spouses each greeted Harry happily. Fred and George with Angelina and Alicia, Percy and Oliver, Bill with Fleur. Charlie and Ginny came up independently, apparently not seeing anyone valiant enough to brave a Weasley Christmas.  
  
"Weren't sure you were going to be able to break free of Malfoy," said Fred as they whisked him into the kitchen.   
  
"Yeah, Mum's been having a bit of a fit," Ginny said. "She said a half hour longer and she was going to send Bill and Charlie to get you--"  
  
"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley cried in happy surprise the moment they stepped into the kitchen, and Harry doubted he'd ever get so old that a hug from this woman wouldn't be able to engulf him completely. "Really, you must stop by more often, it's been too long. Charlie, you can take the warming charms off the hotpot. George, please help Ginny set the table."  
  
The Weasley's Christmas dinner had become something of legends; roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops flew to the table along with sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots and gravy. They settled down quickly -- they'd obviously been quite eager to eat, and Harry felt a twinge of guilt at how long they'd been made to wait -- and there was a moment where all that could be heard was the collective rustle of an absurdly large family filling their plates.  
  
"Ron said you were bringing Malfoy along," Hermione said to Harry in a mildly confused tone, while Percy told the table about how Howard Hennepin was stealing quills from the Minister's office, he just knew it.  
  
"He might be along in a bit," Harry said with a shrug and Hermione gave a smile in response, but as dinner faded to a dessert, the chance of that seemed less and less likely. Then dinner was finished and Mrs. Weasley took it upon herself to usher her grandchildren to bed, and Harry felt a bit of rotting in his stomach.  
  
The possibility that he'd pushed Malfoy away for good was becoming more and _more_ likely and Harry wasn't sure what to think of that. What if Malfoy hadn't been testing him? The conversation seemed to rushed, now. He shouldn't have left so soon, he should've give him a chance to properly speak his piece, even if it would've been bizarre rambling.   
  
Still, it was only when the games in the den had finished and each Weasleys took his own significant other up his old bedrooms that Harry accepted the fact that Malfoy was not coming.  
  
The collective mass of offspring was sent down the den, to form a human lake around the Christmas tree as they slept.  
  
It'd be too awkward in Ginny's room, and Mrs. Weasley frowned on him sharing a room with an unwed boy, even if Charlie was straight, so Harry was left to fend for himself, managing to bat the children away from the largest couch -- not much of a feat, considering the strongest opponent was still trying to figure out exactly how many months it was to her next birthday.  
  
He couldn't fall to sleep until he promised himself to Floo to Spinner's End first thing after opening the presents the next day.  
  
*  
  
"Potter."  
  
Harry groaned.  
  
"Potter, wake up."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I have something important to tell you and I'm not saying it until you're awake."  
  
Harry honestly didn't recognize Malfoy's voice until he opened his eyes and saw the pale, pointed face about an inch from his own. The flashing lights of the Christmas tree danced behind him and it was all very surreal.  
  
Relief managed to penetrate the sleepy fuzz his mind was wrapped in. Harry worked his mouth once, then finally came up with, "Yeah?"  
  
"You said there was a remote possibility that you were interested in me," Malfoy said shortly.  
  
"Well." God, why couldn't Malfoy talk to him when he was awake, and could think? "I . . . am sorry?"  
  
Malfoy looked taken back, eyes widening. "What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"I don't know," Harry said, finally forcing himself to sit up. The cracks in the window shades revealed a pitch black garden and he had no idea what time it could be. "You wanted to tell me something?"  
  
"Only when you say what you meant first," Malfoy said, suddenly sounding very unsure and small.  
  
"When?"  
  
Malfoy twitched. "When you said there was a remote possibility --" Harry clamped a hand down on Malfoy's steadily rising tone, gesturing to the still sleeping children. Malfoy looked like that was going to set him off when he took a closer look at the bumps on the floor. "What? Wait, are those _people_?"  
  
Harry bit his lip. "You didn't see them when you walked in the room?"  
  
"Yes, but I thought they were . . . lumps or something, some bizarre poor person way of decorating. Each one is a child? There must be twenty, at least!" he said, in a horrified tight whisper.  
  
"There's eight."  
  
"Anyway, stop changing the subject. What did you mean?"  
  
"I'll tell you after you tell me--"  
  
"This is ridiculous." Malfoy closed his eyes, steeling himself for whatever it was he had to share. "I'm gay."  
  
"But I knew that already," Harry said, although he'd just now learned the difference between really, truly hoping something and finding out it was true. It felt rather similar to flying.  
  
Malfoy looked like he was about to hit him. "So?"  
  
"Good job?"  
  
Malfoy grit his teeth. "What did you mean when you said--"  
  
"I meant that you are a male and I am gay," Harry said.  
  
"What, that's it?"  
  
"Well, _then_ that's all I was trying to say," Harry said, and he felt a numb sort of session settle over him as he continued. "But that's just because I didn't want to scare you away."  
  
"You don't scare me," Malfoy replied automatically, then seemed to realize how very adolescent that sounded. "What are you trying to say now, then?"  
  
"There is a very strong possibility that I am interested in you."  
  
They looked at each other for a moment longer, and Harry decided that he'd already made the plunge, he might as well go all for it; and Malfoy was here, wasn't he, so that meant he was willing--  
  
"Harry, go to sleep!" Eloise's voice was a mix of horror and exhaustion. Harry could spot her smooth, pale head rather easily in the flood of red.   
  
Harry pulled back abruptly; Draco watched as he licked his lips slowly as if in a trance.  
  
"Father Christmas won't come while we're awake! He might skip over us!" She continued in a tight, panicky voice.  
  
"Oh please," Draco said, breaking free of his daze. "I happen to know that he casts a sleeping charm before even landing on the roof."  
  
Her head popped up rather comically, "Who are you?"  
  
"This is my friend," Harry said quickly. "He's spending Christmas with us. Or, what's left of it."  
  
"Oh." She looked suspicious, but slowly laid her head down. "Both of you should go to sleep though!"  
  
"If you insist. Move over," Malfoy said, making his way onto the couch.  
  
"You don't mind sleeping on a settee?" Harry asked in mild shock.  
  
"I'm not some girl, Potter, honestly," he said shortly, rolling his eyes as he clamored over to the opposite side, then stretched rather unnecessarily, forcing one small, socked foot into Harry's cheek. "It's a bit like camping in the wild. Well, I imagine, I've never been camping."  
  
"I'd be surprised if you had."  
  
Draco had rolled over onto his side and was now staring into the mass of redheaded children settling down for the night, "You realize that if this madness isn't stopped, all of England will be wading through Weasleys in just a few years?"  
  
"There're only eight of them."  
  
"So far."  
  
"The world would be better off with a few more wizards and witches like the Weasleys, I think."  
  
"A few more? They're going to start running out of names," Malfoy said, flopping backward and wincing, probably at a couch spring, "I don't know how anyone can keep it straight _now_."  
  
"It's not that hard. Bill and Fleur had Eloise, then Fred and Angelina had Harriett --"  
  
"Oh, no, I don't need that taking up any space in my mind, thanks," Malfoy said.  
  
Eloise gave a sudden gasp, claiming she heard bells, but Harry was suddenly much too tired to care.  
  
*  
  
"Finish it." It was hard to grip the sword properly now, the blood was running so thick, pooling at their feet. "I deserve it, don't I?"   
  
"What?"  
  
"You should do it, Harry. I've gotten away with so much. I deserve it, and you deserve to do it."  
  
"But-- I don't want to. No."  
  
"And I don't want you to do it. But you have to."  
  
*  
  
"-- like Mr. Potter got an apple, a collection of pens and a . . . small bronze disk."  
  
"That's a new penny, Mr. Malfoy; Father Christmas gave me one, too. It's Muggle."  
  
"Fascinating."  
  
"Did Father Christmas find out that you were here?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What did he bring you?"  
  
"What all good Death Eaters get. A lump of coal."  
  
"Stop it," the voice Harry finally placed as Eloise's laughed. "Daddy said all Death Eaters are gone."  
  
"Gone?" Malfoy laughed back mockingly. "The Death Eaters won't be gone till each one of them is rotting in the ground. No, we have a few years to wait before the ones in Azkaban finally croak, but there's always a chance until then--"  
  
"Shut _up_ , Malfoy," Harry growled sleepily, kicking the boy off the couch rather easily.  
  
The first thing Harry noticed when opened his eyes was Malfoy scowling at him as he pulled his blanket off the couch to join him on the floor. The second thing was the veritable mountain of gifts that covered the majority of the tree.  
  
There was a buzz of high pitched, twittering excitement amongst the Weasley children, save Eloise, who was staring at Malfoy in near terror and Harry sighed, sitting up slowly.  
  
"You deserve coal, Malfoy," he tried to say it sternly but a yawn made it rather tame. "The Death Eaters are gone for good, Eloise, don't listen to him. He lives in a different reality than the rest of us."  
  
She didn't look entirely convinced, but must've decided that a gift wrapped in brightly colored paper was much more interesting than a crazy man and went back to the presents.  
  
The cracks in the window shade were a deep shade of purple, the sun just beginning to rise. Harry scowled; sure he couldn't have been asleep for more than a minute.  
  
"Do you know what--" He had wanted to finish that with 'time it is,' but when he turned to look down at Malfoy, the sight that greeted him abruptly derailed any train of thought. His hair was an utter mess, Malfoy had apparently gotten too hot during the night and had shed the tops of his pajamas, displaying lightly muscled stomach and arms. He'd known Malfoy was attractive, obviously, but it was one thing to see a person when he was made up to look his best, and another to see him at his worst and still find it breathtaking.  
  
"What what?" Malfoy grumped, running a hand through his hair.   
  
"Nothing, it's not important," Harry said. "Where's my bounty?"  
  
Malfoy pushed his pile of small presents toward him, holding a small black speck which actually was a very teeny lump of coal. A small note attached read, _Better luck next year! -- St. N._  
  
"It's so small," Harry said, wincing in sympathy.  
  
"No, the smaller the better," Malfoy said knowledgeably, tossing the large crumb into the corner. "I might even get a present next year."  
  
"I thought you were rather good this year."  
  
"Not evil and good aren't really the same thing. I'm still a nasty ba--"  
  
"Malfoy."  
  
"Bad wizard," he finished rolling his eyes at Harry's apparent prudishness, but every single set of the children's eyes were on them, wide and absorbing and Malfoy leaned in to mutter. "Like they aren't going to hear it eventually."  
  
"Eventually, not today."  
  
"The longer they have to get used to it, the better."  
  
"You're going to have some pretty messed up kids, Malfoy."  
  
"Of course I am, I'm rich--" he stopped. "Of course I am. I'm a Malfoy. But that's assuming I decide to procreate." He stared down at the cluster of children. "What a troubling thought."  
  
"Come on, you've never thought of having children?"  
  
Draco stared at Harry as if he'd just asked if he'd ever wanted to be a Muggle. "No, I can't say that I have. Lord, you have gotten old, haven't you?"  
  
"Not-- I'm just twenty-three," but Malfoy's face was ducked and he was smiling and Harry stopped his protests.  
  
"When can we open them?"  
  
"When your parents wake up, I suspect," Harry said, burrowing back into the blanket.  
  
Which was the wrong thing to say, apparently, if he didn't want children rushing up the stairs to clamor on top of their parents. Thankfully, Harry didn't really care either way.  
  
"Whoa. Who was nasty enough to get a Malfoy for Christmas?" Fred asked when the group trooped down the stairs as Harry imagined zombie lemmings might.   
  
"Aw, I'd been asking for him all year," Harry said, holding onto Malfoy's shoulder, because he looked like he was ready to bolt at any second.  
  
But if he was afraid of any retaliation, or even recognition, he had nothing to be worried about. They were too exhausted to do anything more than look at him for a moment and collapse on the large couches.  
  
"Pres'n!" Edgar was practically squealing. "Pres'n! Chris'mas! Pres'n!"  
  
"Alright, go ahead," Ron said, setting the toddler on his feet. The boy immediately bolted toward the impressive mountain of gifts, grabbing one at random and running back to his father with it, only to dash back as quickly as he could to grab another to give to his mother.   
  
It released a flood of mayhem, Ron's nieces and nephews attacking the presents with fervor. Wrapping tissue flew in every direction wildly, gasps of surprised joy while their parents watched on contentedly.  
  
Edgar, who, after clawing open each one of his gifts would dump whatever he'd gotten into Malfoy's lap and run off for his next present.  
  
This only brought attention to the quite awkward fact that, outside of Harry, Ron and Hermione (so really just Hermione) no one else had thought to purchase a gift for Malfoy. He stared down at the measly gift, a charmed daily planner, in mild confusion before opening the first page, "Plan for it _today or later you'll pay!_ " It chimed pleasantly.  
  
"Uhm. Yes," he said diplomatically, setting the planner aside. Harry wondered what sort of entries Malfoy would write if he ever used the thing. _'Sit on the couch till noon, eat the last of the biscuits,'_ if he was honest at all.  
  
"Attention!" Fred suddenly cried in a grandiose fashion, spreading his arms and coming dangerously close to sideswiping the Christmas tree. "Before we get any further into the gift giving, George, Angelina, Alicia and I have a present we'd like to bestow upon our dear brother, and brother-in-law, Ronald,"  
  
Ron looked understandably nervous, passing off Sebastian to Hermione as a precaution.  
  
"Yes we do," George continued, "for it is a well known fact that poor Ronald has been tempted by the calls of wealth and stardom by a certain team and we just couldn't stand to see it."  
  
Hermione's calming hand on Ron's arm stopped a heated denial before it could get started, and Fred hurried in with an obviously trimmed down conclusion.  
  
"Thusly, Weasley Wizarding Wheezes has decided open a new Quidditch themed branch of spells and pranks, and become a sponsor of the Chudley Cannons. At least until they can actually get a decent team put together."  
  
There was a beat of silence where Fred and George's identical smirks didn't falter, and Ron just stared.  
  
"Isn't that great, Ron?" Hermione said in a rushed tone, "You can afford to play for the Cannons, now."  
  
Harry realized, as he watched what was happening slowly dawn on Ron, that he'd never _seen_ anything really wonderful happen for Ron. He'd witnessed the aftermath of joyous things, like when he'd told Harry Hermione had said _yes_ when he asked 'Will you marry me?' Hermione laughing as Ron utterly refused to release her hand as he rushed on to give the quite unsurprising news to the rest of their friends. Harry'd been there for moments that had some good overall but were tainted, like when Edgar had been unable to _breathe_ for his first hour or so of his life. He'd never gotten to watch that smile slowly crawl across Ron's face, he'd never seen his eyes flare to life. He'd never really thought about it, but it was suddenly very clear why Hermione didn't resist Ron's hold at all as she got tugged along.  
  
"Yeah," Ron finally said, looking rather awed, "yeah, yeah."  
  
"No thank yous necessary," Fred said.  
  
"But if they're not given, we'll be terribly offended," George finished.  
  
" _Thank_ you!" Ron insisted straight away, talking over George's last bit completely.  
  
"Yes, thank you," Hermione said, but this was directed at Angelina and Alicia, and their exchanged smiles made Harry wonder if who was really giving whom a gift.  
  
"Isn't that something?" the oldest Mrs. Weasley laughed, looking more touched than even Ron. "You boys, it's so good to see you doing something so nice."  
  
"We're _always_ doing nice things," Fred barely got this blatant lie out before he was assaulted by denials from every corner of the room.  
  
"Hey Malfoy," Harry said, leaning forward and taking advantage of the sudden distraction. Malfoy jerked at the noise, proving how truly bored he'd been from the exchange.  
  
"What?" he asked, glancing up at Harry while tossing the stuffed lion off his lap that Edgar had placed there with an excited squeal.  
  
"Pick a hand," Malfoy stared blankly at his presented fists. "Go on."  
  
"Is this some Muggle form of entertainment?" He asked, poking tentatively at Harry's right hand.  
  
Harry said nothing, opening the hand to show it was empty, then quickly opening his left before Malfoy lost interest in what he was doing.  
  
Malfoy did a double take at the small silver ring resting in Harry's palm, then snatched it as if he were afraid it'd disappear any second.  
  
He turned it over with thin, nimble fingers, searching for something frantically and gasping when he found it, " _Suis se tenere_ ," Malfoy whispered, as if he'd spoken the dead language his entire life.  
  
"That's the one, right?" Harry asked. "The one your dad got you? You gave me such a vague description, I wasn't sure."  
  
"This is -- Yes, Potter, this is the gift my father gave me. How did you -- what _else_ did you take from the manor?" His tone was suddenly accusing as he quickly slipped the ring on his middle finger.  
  
"I didn't, you paranoid pounce. A demented house elf did," Harry said, scoffing at Malfoy's immediate suspicion. "He decided to steal some of your things once he heard about the raid. He has a few more hidden away at Hogwarts, if you want to take a look later."  
  
"I want to take a look now!" Malfoy said, unable to look away from the silver band on his finger as he stumbled onto his knees, apparently more than willing to storm the halls of Hogwarts in nothing but his pajamas.  
  
"Don't leave now," Harry said softly, leaning in close, "I'd have to go with you and I don't want to miss out on Mrs. Weasley's special eggnog."  
  
"No eggnog can be that special. No _liquid_ can be that special."  
  
"Why do you think all of us have crammed into one room?" Harry asked, and Malfoy's eyebrow quirked up. He wasn't entirely sure what that meant, though, so decided to add, "Please? Just wait until the presents are finished."  
  
He glanced away from the right for about a second to gleam Harry's face. He looked torn.  
  
"You have no idea how much I'm giving up for you," Malfoy muttered, plopping back down. Then he was back to staring down at the ring like it alone was sustaining him, rubbing another finger across the engraving in almost wonder.  
  
Harry was patting his shoulder sympathetically -- and getting shrugged off -- when he felt the back of his neck prickle.  
  
He glanced up and twitched at finding Ginny's dark brown eyes watching him carefully. She was the only member of the Weasley family who Harry hadn't gathered up the courage to tell that he was gay, rather hoping that the news would get around to her eventually.   
  
He managed to avoid her questioning gaze until after the last present was opened, and the group disbanded slowly, to gather again in the kitchen. He'd almost made it, but then Harriett wandered in front of his knees and he had to slow down, just enough for that hand to rest on his shoulder.  
  
"Join me outside for a fag, Harry?" Ginny asked, smiling so winningly he'd have to be insane to take her up on it. Harry sighed.  
  
"Alright then."  
  
Malfoy watched with betrayed eyes as Harry slung one of Ron's old jackets on and allowed himself to be led outside, leaving him alone with these strange, redheaded people.   
  
The outside world was bitterly cold, and the country air felt dry and stale. Harry watched Ginny's cigarette light up the moment it touched her lips.  
  
"What is it between you and Malfoy?" she asked after taking a long, thoughtful drag.  
  
Well then.  
  
"It's nothing official, really," Harry shrugged, watching a lone duck try to gain purchase on the frozen surface of the Weasleys lake.  
  
"He about orgasmed when he saw that gift you got him." Ginny had perfected blowing smoke rings her eighteenth year. "The best you ever got me was a package of hair ties."  
  
"They were supposed--"  
  
"To be charmed, I know, it's fine. That's not why I wanted to talk to you," she sighed. "Do you know what you're doing?"  
  
Harry raised an eyebrow. "I know well enough."  
  
"Can you honestly have forgotten what kind of boy Malfoy was?" She asked, turning to face him for the first time. "He was awful, Harry. But worse -- no listen, worse than that, he was wonderful. He was charming to everyone who he wanted to impress, and they all fell for it."  
  
"Not to worry, he's been nothing but horrendous and bratty," Harry assured her, rather flatly.  
  
"I want what's best for you, Harry," Ginny said earnestly, hugging herself with one arm, the other keeping the cigarette close to her lips. "You deserve the best, you deserve to be happy. I'm just not sure _Draco Malfoy_ will give you that."  
  
"As if you could be sure of anyone," Harry said. "I'm willing to take my chances."  
  
She sighed, brushing his cheek. "Just be safe, alright? Don't forget that we're here for you."  
  
"Of course," Harry said.  
  
"Ginny! Mother needs a hand in the kitchen!" Came Percy's sharp voice and Ginny scowled, pushing the last bits of her cigarette into a heap of snow on the balcony rail.  
  
"Just a second!" She called back, just as sharp. "I do love you, Harry. Just remember that, alright?"  
  
"It's not as though he's Voldemort," Harry laughed. Ginny smiled weakly in response and stepped inside.  
  
She walked the hallway as if she were the only one in it, gaze forward and steady, completely ignoring Malfoy as he made his way toward the door.  
  
He stuck his tongue out at her back and continued down the hall.  
  
"Colder than a witch's tit," Draco muttered, hugging a jacket that Harry just then recognized as Bill's. "What'd she want?"  
  
"Just to talk."  
  
"Hm," he said shortly. "Do you still love her?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"At school, I remember you two were together for a bit. Do you still want to be?"  
  
"Not even in the slightest."   
  
Draco smiled. "Then it's mean to encourage her with promises of tolerance."  
  
"No it's not, because I have no intention of _not_ tolerating her," Harry said, then pulled Malfoy down to join him on the porch and slung one arm around narrow shoulders.  
  
"But _why_?"  
  
"Because she is a good person and I love her. Like I love Hermione."  
  
Malfoy shifted, leaning just that much closer. "Like you love Weasley? The Ron one, I mean?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
"Like pouncey, pure hearted, Gryffindor love?" he asked in an almost singsongy voice, fiddling with his ring happily.   
  
Harry smirked; the smell of Mrs. Weasley's eggnog wafted from Malfoy. "Like I love all my friends, you gigantic twat."  
  
"I don't love my friends," Malfoy informed him snottily.  
  
"That's your loss," Harry said shortly, wondering why this obnoxious boy was slowly plastering himself to his side and why it felt like the most natural thing in the world for him to do so.  
  
"You think so? But I don't want to love as easily as you do," Malfoy said, the swell of his cheek pressing softly against Harry's shoulder. There was a moment of tense silence where Malfoy was Malfoy and undoubtedly thinking appropriately inappropriate Malfoy thoughts, and Harry's shoulder felt like it was burning at the fragile contact. "Am _I_ your friend, Potter? Do you love me?"  
  
Oh, what a question.   
  
He'd certainly almost kissed him just a few hours before, and he very much wanted to now but he wasn't entirely sure what Draco Malfoy was to him, he felt simultaneously a part of Harry, and still, somehow, completely foreign. It wasn't at all like the undeniable bond he shared with Snape, a loathed recognition borne of shared moments of horror, and it wasn't anything like the very safe, welcoming friendship he shared with the people who waited inside. It was tentative, if anything. Something that felt as if it could be ripped to shreds at a slight wind, but had somehow withstood tornados.   
  
He'd skipped some step into getting Harry to love him, found some path other than friendship.  
  
It wasn't until Draco was pulling away, tired of waiting for any form of response that he realized how long he'd been silent, and there was a stab of panic he hadn't felt since days of Voldemort.   
  
He was fully aware of grabbing hold of Malfoy's upper arm and pulling him back, but kissing him was as much of a surprise to Harry as it was to Malfoy, if his ungraceful squawk was anything to go by. Harry had pulled him off balance and Malfoy toppled into him, thin white hands grabbing onto Harry's shoulders to steady himself as their mouths mashed.  
  
It was sloppy and awkward, even when Draco regained his balance and hummed pleasantly, bringing his arm's up and around Harry's neck.   
  
"Don't go to Spinner's End." He'd pulled away just enough to move his lips, and the words went directly into Malfoy's mouth.  
  
Malfoy laughed, pressing his forehead to Harry's. "You'll have to do something to convince me to stay, of course."   
  
"And that is?"  
  
*  
  
"Something came up, we've got to go. No, not even for breakfast, this is terribly important, we've really got to hurry, so, I'll see you all on New Years and thank you so much for having me and Malfoy, both of us and -- oh, thank you. A simple heating charm, got it. Thank you, it looks delicious, so next time -- Yes, I have to stop by more often, but we really, really have to go."  
  
*  
  
Harry wanted to laugh at how fast they both ran up the stairs, how quickly they shed their clothes and how high Malfoy bounced when he practically tossed him onto the bed.  
  
Harry felt deliriously giddy in a way he hadn't since flying for the first time.   
  
This is what he'd been picturing, ever since the party, ever since Malfoy truly smiled at him. Draco in his bed, with Harry on top of him, skin on skin and it was better than he could've imagined. Draco was a pureblood, something Harry hadn't appreciated the full implications of until this moment. Every inch of his body hummed with magical energy, it was tangled with his blood. He was the very embodiment of everything Harry loved and hated about magic, the dizzying pleasures and the staggering repercussions and he wasn't sure that he'd ever be able to take his hands off this young man ever again. He shared this worry with Draco, who chuckled.  
  
"I never pegged you as a clingy type, Potter."  
  
"I wouldn't say clingy as much as possessive," Harry said with a wolfish grin, rolling onto Draco's front and Draco onto his back by proxy.   
  
Every shift of sharp elbows and knees Draco made against him were reminders of where he was and how he'd gotten there. How obvious it was now, of course his life had been dull before. Without _this_ , how could it be anything but? Still, Draco squirmed beneath him, obviously uncomfortable with the fact that he was comfortable. "Get on with it."  
  
Harry smiled, apparently unable to stop, running cool fingers down Draco's warm, quivering stomach. He paused at the tops of the pajama bottoms, "First time?"  
  
"No," he said slowly, looking up at Harry for what he guessed was approval, "twice. Zabini last year - or. Sixth year."  
  
"And?"  
  
Malfoy mumbled a name that could've been anything from Dumbledore to Weasley, and a quick jab to his stomach provided a yelp of, "Pansy!"  
  
"Aw, I thought you didn't have a crush on her?"  
  
"Merlin, I _hate_ you," he made a brief struggle to push Harry off of him, but was quickly appeased.  
  
"That's okay," Harry leaned in close, nipped at Draco's earlobe, "I think I have a bit of a crush on you."  
  
"You--" He huffed delightfully. "Well, I should hope so," he decided on after a moment of fumbling.  
  
Had Malfoy always wore his emotions so openly? Or was this just the first time Harry had decided to look, to care? For the first time in his life, he was terribly grateful for Voldemort. Putting Draco on pause until Harry could figure out what a brilliant catch the boy was.   
  
"How about you?" Draco was asking, grinding up rather vulgarly and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "How often have you done the deed? Any drunken snogging with Weasley?"  
  
Harry chuckled, "Which one?"  
  
"I was referring to that redheaded one," Draco said.  
  
"Oh, I did it with the other," Harry said. "But truthfully . . . twice with a female and a handful of times with males."  
  
"Fascinating." Draco wriggled, lifting his hips to help in the removing of his pants. "Just blowjobs or . . . ?"  
  
"Oh no, I've plowed and been plowed," Harry said, reaching around and fingering Draco's suddenly very tight entrance.  
  
"That's disgusting!" Draco face went bright red and he pushed away from Harry.  
  
"You think?" Harry asked.  
  
" _Yes!_ " So indignant.  
  
"So what do you want to do, then?" Harry asked.  
  
"Just . . . you know. Normal things." He made a vague gesture toward his cock and Harry snorted.  
  
"Alright, I'll blow you off, and then we'll try what I like."  
  
Malfoy nodded hesitantly, torn. More than eager to have someone's mouth on his cock but no doubt terrified of horror stories he'd been told in locker rooms and boy's dorms about what gay sex consisted of. Harry knew he'd been a bit intimidated his first time.  
  
Harry slid down the expanse of smooth, soft skin that could only be acquired after years of being spoiled, watching Draco's eyes grow hungrier the closer he got. He was already hard, nearly dripping by the time Harry was mouth to cock.  
  
He licked all the way up its length, watching it twitch in anticipation before slowly inhaling it, Draco's scent and taste and-- suddenly it was in the back of his throat and he nearly gagged, pulling back in surprise.  
  
Malfoy was choking on a gasp, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.  
  
"S-Sorry, sorry," he apologized, looking terrified that Harry might change his mind.  
  
"S'alright," Harry said, his voice a bit hoarse courtesy of Draco's enthusiasm, and descended again, this time with a firm grip on skinny hips.  
  
He got halfway to the base before fingers started threading through his hair, tugging a bit, but not unpleasantly. Malfoy was releasing a slow building, wordless whine, trying his best to break free of Harry's hold and fuck his mouth. He got the to base, slowly attempting to swallow, Draco was a bit long.  
  
The fingers suddenly tightened their hold and that was all the warning Harry got before his mouth was filled with the salty release.  
  
It was, in total, about thirty seconds and Draco looked about ready to die.  
  
"You're supposed to do that," Harry said once he finished swallowing. "Otherwise you wouldn't have such a good recovery rate, yeah? Alright then, roll over."  
  
Malfoy gave Harry one last pleading look before doing as Harry asked, presenting a mix of soft, slender curves that no boy had any right to possess and hard lines that spoke of undeniable masculinity. _Mine_ , Harry thought in a rather wicked voice, but promised aloud. "You'll like this, I promise."  
  
He took off his glasses and reached for his wand, brushing it against Draco's tail bone, and the boy shivered at the sensation of the cleansing spell.  
  
"I still don't like this," he informed Harry with a particularly dejected pout. Harry just smiled, and slowly wriggled a finger in. Malfoy's entrance did its best to repel him though, and Harry had to groan at the thought of that cramping, heated hole spread wide to accept his cock. Slick and hot and perfect.   
  
"No, no, you dirty pervert!" Draco said sharply, apparently able to read minds and nearly climbing up the bed and off Harry's finger.  
  
"Trust me," Harry said, pressing a hand to his lower back and forcing his hips down.  
  
"This is so gross," Malfoy whimpered to the inside of his elbow pathetically. "How can you get off on this?"  
  
"I don't get off on _this_ ," Harry said, twitching his finger just a bit and enjoying the slow shudder that traveled up Draco's back.  
  
"Then what are you doing with your finger up my-- _fuck_."  
  
" _That_ is what I get off on," he said it with a smile.  
  
"Wha? Ooh, That feels _so_. What is that?" He was pushing back onto Harry's finger wantonly, spreading his thighs further.  
  
"That's why gay sex was invented," Harry said, pulling out only to push two more fingers in.  
  
"But I don't get -- _aah_ \--you get off on it?" His back was curling, knuckles white as he squeezed the bed sheets, fucking himself on Harry's hand, shameless in his pleasure.  
  
"I get off on watching you," He pulled out and watched Draco slump, whimpering at being abandoned, "at my," he hoisted the slender hips upward and spread the pert, young cheeks with calloused thumbs, "complete mercy."  
  
Draco wailed uncontrollably when Harry jabbed his tongue in, his legs shooting out and nearly knocking Harry's wand and glasses off the bed.  
  
"That's so groooss _oh_ don't stop, I'll, if you stop, I'll-- _Potter_!" he squealed, trying to impale himself further on Harry's tongue, but finding it frustratingly short. Harry blew lightly into the gasping, starving hole and watched the sensation wreck havoc all up and down the pale body. He began rocking rhythmically between the bed and Harry's mouth, torn between the two teasing sensations.  
  
Wriggling one hand between Malfoy's crotch and the bed, Harry managed to get a firm hold of Draco's cock, which jerked at the contact.  
  
"Pa-Potter, Potter, _Potter_ ," gasped as if he stopped Harry would, coming for the second time that night, choking on Harry's name.  
  
He lay for a moment, unable to do anything more than pant and tremble in the aftereffects of a bloody powerful orgasm. Harry watched him, sprawled and vulnerable and felt his lust sore to new heights, so hard it was beginning to ache.  
  
He came to rest beside him, brushing back damp bangs and watching the two spots of red slowly fade from Draco's face with a satisfied smile. "Still think it's gross?" He prodded.  
  
Malfoy just hummed his response, smiling sedately.   
  
It was easy to penetrate Malfoy's defenses and Harry did, exploring the pink mouth until the other was moaning into the kiss. The pale, marked arm moved to rest lazily on Harry's side while his own hand found its way to Malfoy's neck, calloused thumb stroking at the fragile skin there and Malfoy nearly shuddered at the sensation.  
  
Malfoy's thigh, which had shifted and was brushing lightly against Harry's very distracting hardness, suddenly tensed.   
  
The blond broke the kiss with a wet noise and glanced down at the stiff cock he just seemed to realize was attached to Harry. "You -- should I--"  
  
"That would be nice, yes."  
  
Draco reached out for Harry's cock awkwardly, looking unsure at this new angle and he had to wonder how often the boy even touched himself. The clumsy hold was soon more than made up for by Draco's look of determined concentration, tongue sneaking out to wet his lips. He held Harry's hardness still with one hand, stroking it with the other like one would a favored pet.   
  
"Get -- you need to--"  
  
"I know what to do," Draco interrupted stubbornly, sliding down the bed so he was about level with Harry's stomach, and began tonguing at the scarred man's belly button. Harry squirmed in surprise, jerking persistently in Malfoy's lose hold.   
  
"A little lower," he hissed out between clenched teeth.  
  
"Oh, are you sure?" he answered shortly, and cheekily started worshiping the soft, sensitive skin right above where Harry's pubic hair began with his tongue and sharp, little nips of teeth.  
  
Harry fidgeted, having never paid much attention to that particular area of his anatomy. "Malfoy!"  
  
"Still lower, then?" Malfoy asked, smirking up at Harry and showing two rows of magically straightened teeth.  
  
"Just a bit," Harry said, annoyingly breathless.  
  
"Oh!" Malfoy cried theatrically. "You must mean this?"  
  
He finally took Harry in a proper grip, who nearly thrashed in surprise.  
  
"Bloody tease." Was muttered while taking hold of blond, baby fine hairs.  
  
"I think it likes me," Malfoy murmured, and before Harry could respond, Malfoy's mouth formed a neat little 'o' and he slipped the very tip of Harry's prick into his mouth.  
  
"Shit," Harry hissed, thrusting upward at the sudden, slick heat. Draco managed to smirk up at him with just his eyes, licking the tip then boldly taking him more than half in. He suckled a bit, watching Harry's expressions with mild interest, tonguing here and there, and Harry couldn't remember a time when it was this hard to refrain himself from loosing control and fucking his partner's throat.  
  
Especially when Draco hummed pleasantly, moving his thin, warm fingers down to fondle his ball sack. Harry bit his lip, jerking his hips slightly and letting out tense, careful breaths.  
  
He thought he could come like this, careful and tight, but then Draco surged forward and just about swallowed him whole and he sort of lost his mind for a moment.  
  
"Holy _shit_ ," he was pulling Draco's head down, rocking in and it felt near delirious. He tried to swallow it all, but ended up spitting the majority of it on his hand, then wiping it on the bedspread.   
  
Malfoy crawled up Harry's body, looking him dead in the eye. "Now, we're going to Hogwarts."  
  
"A quick nap and then we're going to Hogwarts."  
  
"Just a quick nap," Draco agreed, and collapsed.  
  
And when he finally gave in to sleep, he kicked his legs and mumbled things. He tossed and stole the blankets. And Harry smiled, basking in Draco's limitless energy.  
  
That night, he didn't dream.  
  
  
END!


End file.
